r*  f\  T*  /•*  r*  •     i   i/'NTrV1 

EOR6E  bbl  01 S 


AND 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


GELttS 
.IBBABY 


S* 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY 


AND 


OTHER   STUDIES 


BY 

ROSE   ELIZABETH   CLEVELAND 


Sltbtnittnfy  fbttionr. 


FUNK   &    WAGNALLS 

NEW    YORK  xggg  LONDON 

IO  AND   12   DEY   STREET  44   FLEET   STREET 

All  Rightt  Rtttrvtd 


145833 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1883,  by 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS, 
In  the  Office  ot  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


[All  Rights  Reserved^ 
Registered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY, 7 

RECIPROCITY, 25 

ALTRUISTIC  FAITH, 43 

HISTORY, 61 

Studies  in  the  Middle  Ages :  a  Series  of  Historical  Essays. 

OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE, 81 

0 

rt                      CHARLEMAGNE 105 

f                     THE  MONASTERY 127 

^ 

7                     CHIVALRY, 153 

,  -                     JOAN  OF  ARC,  171 

Q 


GEOEGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY. 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY. 
I. 

A  GENUINE  poem  is  almost  certain  of  recognition,  as 
such,  in  the  long  run.  If  verse  contains  poetry,  that 
poetry  makes  itself  felt,  whatever  blemishes  the  verse,  as 
verse,  may  have  ;  but  if  dint  of  argument  alone  brings 
us  to  acknowledge  faultless  verse  a  poem,  like  Galileo,  in 
the  moment  of  recantation,  we  shall  mutter  to  ourselves  our 
former  and  unrecanted  conviction.  Choose,  for  example, 
any  Paris  to  arbitrate  between  "  Aurora  Leigh"  and  "  The 
Spanish  Gypsy,"  and  which  will  win  the  golden  apple  ?  If 
Paris  is  at  all  able  to  tell  black  from  white,  he  will  at  once 
perceive  the  "  points"  of  which  the  "  Gypsy"  is  possessed 
and  of  which  "  Aurora"  is  destitute.  He  will  discover  in 
the  pages  of  George  Eliot  superlatives  enough.  Their  color 
and  glow,  their  vigor,  their  passion,  their  nobility  of  senti 
ment,  their  perfection  of  pathos,  the  sustained  movement 
of  the  story,  its  tragic  and  worthy  denouement,  its  perfect 
prosody,  its  successful  unities,  and  its  everywhere-pervading 
atmosphere  of  ethical  sublimity — all  these  will  compare 
with  "  Aurora"  to  "  Aurora's"  disadvantage.  And  yet, 
and  yet — how  is  it  ? — "  Aurora"  gets  the  apple  I  Perhaps 
poor  Paris  can  only  stammer  forth,  in  answer  to  the  ques 
tion,  What  in  "  Aurora"  more  excellent  than  in  the 
"  Gypsy"  establishes  her  claim  to  the  prize?— the  unan- 


10  GEORGE    ELIOT'8    POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

swering  answer,  "Je  ne  sais  quoi."  Paris  knows  that  by 
the  one  he  is  impressed,  stirred,  uplifted  ;  and  that  the 
other,  with  its  high  morality,  and  rare  knowledge,  and  brill 
iant  diction,  falls  cold  upon  his  ear ;  in  short,  whether  he 
comprehends  it  or  not,  it  is  the  poetry  in  "  Aurora"  and 
the  lack  of  it  in  the  "  Gypsy"  which  compels  his  decision. 
"What's  in  a  name  ?  A  rose  by  any  other  name  might 
smell  as  sweet ;  but  a  lily,  if  rechristened  rose,  would  never 
diffuse  the  rose's  odor,  nor  gain,  in  addition  to  its  own  spot 
less  perfections,  the  deep-hearted  sorcery  of  that  enchant 
ing,  crumpled  wonder,  which  we  thrill  in  touching,  as  if 
it,  too,  had  nerves,  and  blood,  and  a  human  heart — a  rose  ! 
So  prose  can  never  become  poetry  by  bearing  its  name.  Ad 
ventitious  circumstances — personal  distinction,  dazzling  suc 
cess  in  other  fields,  the  influence  of  sympathetic  and  power 
ful  friends — may  cause  something  admirable  as  prose  to 
pass,  for  the  moment,  as  poetry.  But  the  sure  judgment 
of  time  reverses  such  opinions,  and  prose  continues  prose, 
and  poetry  remains  forever  uncounterfeited. 


II. 

1  come  at  once  to  the  consideration  of  George  Eliot's 
verse  in  the  mention  of  two  qualities  which  it  seems  to  me 
to  lack,  and  which  1  hold  to  be  essentials  of  poetry. 

The  first  of  these  two  qualities  has  to  do  with  form,  and 
is  a  property,  if  not  the  whole,  of  the  outside,  that  which 
affects  and  (if  anything  could  do  this)  stops  with  the  senses. 
Yet  here,  as  elsewhere  in  this  department  of  criticism,  it  is 


GEORGE   ELIOT'S   POETRY.  11 

difficult  to  be  exact.  I  ask  myself,  Is  it  her  prosody  ?  and 
am  obliged  to  find  it  faultless  as  Pope's.  There  is  never  in 
her  metres  a  syllable  too  much  or  too  little.  Mrs.  Brown 
ing's  metre  is  often  slovenly,  her  rhymes  are  often  false. 
Yet,  explain  it  who  will,  Elizabeth  Browning's  verse  has 
always  poetry  and  music,  which  George  Eliot's  lacks. 

What  was  work  to  write  is  work  to  read.  Ruskiifs 
dictum — "No  great  intellectual  thing  was  ever  done  by 
great  effort" — I*  suspect  to  be  wholly  true,  and  that  it  is 
pre-eminently  true  in  the  production  of  poetry.  Poetry 
must  be  the  natural  manner  of  the  poet,  and  can  never  be 
assumed.  I  drt  not  mean  by  this  to  ignore  the  aids  which 
study  gives  to  genius  ;  I  only  mean  to  say  that  no  mere 
labor  and  culture  can  -simulate  poetic  fire,  or  atone  for  its 
absence.  George  Eliot  puts  her  wealth  of  message  into  the 
mould  of  poetic  form  by  continuous  effort.  No  secret  of 
hydraulics  could  cause  a  dewdrop  to  hang  upon  a  rose-leaf 
in  a  cube.  Her  torrents  of  thought  were  predestined  to  a 
cubical  deliverance.  Never  was  the  Calvinistic  dilemma 
more  intrusive.  Her  free  will  cannot  squeeze  them 
spherical. 

George  Eliot's  prose  carries  easily  its  enormous  burdens 

of  concentrated  gift.     It  is  like  the  incomparable  trained 

.  elephants  of  Eastern  monarchs,  which  bear  at  once  every 

k treasure — the  iron  of  agriculture,  the  gem  of  royalty  ;  and 

in  its  cumbrous  momentum  it  out-distances  all  competitors. 

But  poesy  should  betray  no  burdens.     Its  rider  should  sit 

lightly,  with  no  hint  of  spur.     It  should  sport  along  its 

course  and  reach  its  goal  unwearied. 

The  born  poet  has  no  agony  in  the  deliverance  of  his 
song.  The  uttering  is  to  him  that  soothing  balm  which 


12  GEORGE   ELIOT'S   POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

the  utterance  is  to  his  reader.  Burns  said,  "  My  passions 
when  once  lighted  raged  like  so  many  devils  till  they  got 
vent  in  rhyme  ;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses,  like 
a  spell,  soothed  all  into  quiet."  But  where  will  one  find  a 
lullaby  in  George  Eliot's  verses  ? 

Poets  do,  indeed,  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in 
song  ;  but  the  singing  quiets  the  suffering.  It  is  the  weep 
ing,  not  the  tear  wept,  that  gives  relief.  Mrs.  Browning 
makes  no  secret  of  the  headache. 

"  If  heads  that  hold  a  rhythmic  thought  must  ache  perforce, 
Then  I,  for  one,  choose  headaches." 

In  a  private  letter  she  writes  :  "  I  have  not  shrunk  from 
any  amount  of  labor  where  labor  could  do  anything." 
Where  labor  could  do  anything  !  There  it  is  ! 

George  Eliot  has  been  said  to  possess  Shakespearian 
qualities.  Perhaps  just  here,  in  the  relation  of  manner  to 
matter,  is  seen  her  greatest  resemblance  and  greatest  differ 
ence.  No  writer,  all  concede,  ever  carried  and  delivered 
so  much  as  Shakespeare.  Never  was  human  utterance  so 
packed  with  wealthy  meaning,  so  loaded  with  all  things 
that  can  be  thought  or  felt,  inferred  or  dreamed,  as  his. 
And  it  all  comes  with  gush  and  rush,  or  with  gentle,  mur 
muring  flow,  just  as  it  can  come,  just  as  it  must  come.  He 
takes  no  trouble,  and  he  gives  none.  From  one  of  his  plays, 
replete  with  his  incomparable  wit,  wisdom,  and  conceit,  you 
emerge  as  from  an  ocean  bath,  exhilarated  by  the  tossing  of 
billows  whose  rough  embrace  dissolves  to  tenderest  caress, 
yet  carries  in  itself  hints  of  central  fire,  of  utmost  horizon, 
of  contact  with  things  in  heaven  and  earth  undreamt  of  in 
our  philosophy.  You  come  from  one  of  George  Eliot's 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY.  13 

poems  as  from  a  Turkish  batli  of  latest  science  and  refine 
ment, — appreciative  of  benefit,  but  so  battered,  beaten,  and 
disjointed  as  to  need  repose  before  you  can  be  conscious  of 
refreshment. 

The  irony  of  fate  spares  not  one  shining  mark.  George 
Eliot  cared  most  to  have  the  name  of  poet.  But  her  gait 
betrays  her  in  the  borrowed  robe.  It  is  as  if  the  parish 
priest  should  insist  on  wearing  in  his  desk  my  lady's 
evening  costume.  It  is  too  much  and  not  enough.  He 
cannot  achieve  my  lady's  trick  which  causes  the  queenly 
train  to  float  behind  her  like  the  smoke-plume  of  a  gliding 
engine.  He  steps  on  it  and  stumbles.  You  step  on  it  and 
fall.  On  my  lady  it  is  never  in  the  way  ;  on  His  Rever 
ence  it  is  always  so.  Yet  he  will  preach  in  it  !  "  There 

are,"  writes  Mrs.  Browning  to  II.  H.  Home,  "Mr. , 

Mr.   ,   Lord  ,   and  one  or  two  others  who  have 

education  and  natural  ability  enough  to  be  anything  in  the 
world  except  poets,  and  who  choose  to  be  poets  in  spite  of 
nature  and  their  stars,  to  say  nothing  of  gods,  men,  and 
critical  columns.'* 


III. 


A  second  quality  which  George  Eliot's  poetry  lacks  is 
internal  and  intrinsic,  pertaining  to  matter  rather  than 
manner,  though,  as  will  be  suggested  later  on,  standing, 
perhaps,  in  the  relation  to  manner  of  cause  to  effect.  It  is 
that,  indeed,  which  all  her  works  lack,  but  which  prose,  as 
prose,  can  get  along  without ;  call  it  what  you  will,  faith  or 


14  GEOKGE    ELIOT'S   POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

transcendentalism  ;  I  prefer  to  define  it  negatively  as  the 
antipode  of  agnosticism. 

No  capable  student  of  her  works  but  must  admit  the 
existence  of  this  deficiency.  Everywhere  and  in  all  things 
it  is  apparent.  Between  all  her  lines  is  written  the  stern, 
self-imposed  thus  far  and  no  farther.  Her  noblest  charac 
ters  move,  majestic  and  sad,  up  to  a — stone- wall  !  There 
is  no  need  that  argument  be  brought  to  establish  this  propo 
sition.  It  demands — nay,  admits  of,  no  proof,  for  it  is  self- 
evident. 

The  question  which  concerns  us  here  is  simply,  What  has 
this  fact  to  do  with  George  Eliot's  poetry  ? 

I  answer,  Much,  every  way.  Herein,  indeed,  is  matter. 
But  my  suspicions  must  not  be  disclosed  in  their  full 
heterodoxy.  I  venture,  however,  to  affirm  that  agnosticism 
can  nev^er  exist  in  true  poetry.  Let  verse  have  every 
quality  which  delights  sense,  captivates  intellect,  and  stirs 
the  heart,  yet  lack  that  ray  which,  coming  from  a  sun 
beyond  our  system,  reaches,  blends  with,  vivifies,  and 
assures  the  intimation  of  and  longing  for  immortality  in  man 
— lacking  this,  you  have  not  poetry. 

It  is  the  necessity  of  the  poet,  his  raison  d'etre,  to  meet 
and  join  the  moving  of  men's  minds  toward  the  hereafter. 
For  all  minds  tend  thither.  The  dullest  mortal  spirit  must 
at  times  grope  restlessly  and  expectantly  in  the  outer  dark 
ness  for  something  beyond  ;  and  this  something  must  exist, 
will  exist,  in  a  true  poem.  It  need  not  be  defined  as 
Heaven,  or  Paradise,  or  Hades,  or  Nirvana  ;  but  we  must 
not  be  confronted  with  silence  ;  there  must  be  in  some  way 
recognition  of  and  sympathy  with  this  deepest  yearning  of 
the  soul.  Many  a  one,  not  knowing  what,  not  seeing 


GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY.  15 

<vhere,  but  trusting  in  somewhat  and  trusting  in  some 
where,  has  been  .a  poet  and  an  inspiration  to  his  race.  The 
simplest  bead-telling  Margaret  is  appeased  with  the  creedless 
faith  of  her  Faust,  though  it  be  told  in  "  phrases  slightly 
different"  from  the  parish  priest's.  Faust,  the  lore-crammed, 
the  knowledge-sated,  yet  feels  the  unseen,  and  longs  and 
trusts.  His  proud  will  brings  no  cold,  impenetrable  extin 
guisher  to  place  upon  this  leaping  flame  of  spirit,  which 
sends  its  groping  ray  far  beyond  his  finite  horizon,  ever 
moving,  moving  in  its  search  ;  because  he  feels  assurance  of 
the  existence  of  the  something  toward  which  it  moves. 

George  Eliot,  confronted  by  Margaret's  question,  answers 
sadly,  with  submission  born  of  a  proud  ignorance,  "  I  do 
not  know.  My  feeling  that  there  is  something  somewhere  is, 
itself,  unaccountable,  and  proves  nothing.  I  simply  do — • 
not — know.  I  will  not  conjecture.  It  is  idle  and  imperti 
nent  to  guess.  There  is  that  of  which  you  and  I  both  do 
know,  because  we  have  experience  of  it.  Of  this  only  will 
1  speak.  All  else  is  but  verbiage.  "We  stop  here." 

And  she  stops  here,  before  a  great  stone-wall,  higher 
than  we  can  see  over,  thicker  than  we  can  measure,  so  cold 
that  we  recoil  at  the  touch.  There  is  no  getting  any 
farther.  It  is  the  very  end. 

Now,  this  can  never  be  poetry  ;  for  the  poet  must  ever 
open  and  widen  our  horizon.  He  need  not  be  on  the  wing, 
but  his  wings  must  be  in  sight.  He  need  not — nay,  he 
must  not,  deal  with  man-made  creeds  and  dogmas.  He 
need  not  deal  with  ethics  even.  Homer  knows  nothing  of 
most  of  George  Eliot's  sweet  humanities,  and  confuses 
shockingly  all  things  which,  since  his  poor  day,  have  come 
to  be  catalogued  under  the  heads  of  virtue  and  vice.  His 


16  GEOEGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND    OTHEK    STUDIES. 

deities  make  merry  over  the  cripple  among  them,  and  spend 
most  of  their  time  meditating  guiles  concerning  each  other, 
and  each  other's  favorites  among  men.  Humanity  is  the 
football  for  their  game.  They,  the  relentless,  cruel  im 
mortals,  are  to  be  come  up  with  if  mortal  may  ;  to  be  pro 
pitiated  if  mortal  must.  Nowhere  is  there  any  trace  of 
conscience,  nowhere  any  sense  of  sin.  As  to  the  moralities 
of  human  life,  the  duties  of  man  to  man,  these  Homeric 
Bob  Roys  found  themselves  amply  sufficed  with 

"...  the  simple  plan 
That  they  should  take  who  had  the  power, 
And  they  should  keep  who  can." 

Yet  among  all  there  is  a  boundless  belief  in  a  beyond. 
The  imagination  and  anticipation  of  existence  comes  never 
to  an  end.  The  future  is,  indeed,  unknown,  since  he  who 
enters  may  not  return  from  Hades.  Yet  it  is  vastly, 
vaguely  certain.  A  multitude  of  immortals  of  infinite  power 
and  irresistible  beauty  surround  and  have  continually  to  dc 
with  mortal  men,  and  for  each  man  there  is  some  chance  of 
winning  from  these  immortals  the  gift  of  godhood.  All 
expands  and  extends.  There  is  no  end-all,  no  be-all. 
Hence,  without  morality  or  goodness,  we  have  poetry. 

In  Heine  we  have  shocking  jests  and  fearful  impieties, 
but  never  sincere  agnosticism.  He  believed  all,  and  denied 
.all.  He  threw  away  with  one  hand  what  he  clasped  with  the 
other.  "  Lying,  corpse-like,  upon  the  barren  sand  by  the 
grovelling,  heaving  sea,  which  is  dipped  up  by  the  gray  and 
formless  cloud-daughters  of  the  air,  in  tedious,  ceaseless 
rise  and  fall  (so  like  his  own  life  !),  he  still  sees  the  lumi' 


GEORGE    ELIOT78    POETRY.  17 

nous  aspect  of  a  far-away  perfection,  m  whose  heavenly 
beauty  his  spirit  has  found  the  inspiration  that  carries  it 
straight,  like  a  bird,  to  heaven's  gate."  *  The  ilse,  evan 
ished  from  the  waters,  where  prayers  are  said  and  church- 
hells  ring,  lies  in  the  depths  of  his  own  sea-soul.  Ever 
and  anon  the  angel-face  of  the  little  dead  Veronica  woos 
and  wins  him.  to  purity  and  peace. 

Byron's  negatives  amount  to  an  affirmative.  Amid  all 
his  personal  misery  and  assurance  that 

"  Whatever  them  hast  been, 
'Twere  something  better  not  to  be," 

he,  after  all,  speaks  only  for  himself.  For  those  who  care 
for  that  sort  of  thing  there  is  a  paradise,  heaven,  angels, 
rewards  of  virtue,  God,  etc.  These  things  are  not  in  his 
line,  but  he  knows  a  good  deal  about  them.  They  are,  but. 
for  whom  is  only  a  matter  of  taste  and  taking  the  trouble. 

Even  the  sadly  carnal  Swinburne  predicates  and  care' 
lessly  hints  at  an  over-realm.  In  his  mournfulest  negatives 
he  arrives  at  certainties  which  put  some  meaning  into  his 
luxury  of  sound. 

"  From  too  much  love  of  living, 

From  hope  and  fear  set  free, 
We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 

Whatever  gods  there  be, 
That  no  life  lives  forever, 
That  dead  men  rise  up  never, 
That  even  the  weariest  river 

Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

*  Der  Schiffbruchige. 


18  GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

"  Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 

Nor  any  change  of  light  ; 
Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken, 

Nor  any  sound  or  sight  ; 
Nor  wintry  leaves,  nor  vernal, 
Nor  days,  nor  things  diurnal  ; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 

In  an  eternal  night." 

There  is  something  quite  appreciable  here.  It  is  as  far 
from  agnosticism  as  it  is  from  Christianity. 

For  all  test  one  may  apply  to  it  he  wins  this  result- 
namely,  that  poetry,  whose  necessity  it  is  to  deal  with 
humanity  in  all  its  bearings,  can  never,  consistently  with  its 
mission,  leave  the  reader  merely  the  silence  of  the  Sphinx 
concerning  the  hereafter — can  never  return  to  the  heavens, 
aflame  with  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  the  milky  mist  of 
nndiscerned  systems,  merely  the  stare  of  stone-dead,  stone- 
blind  eyes  !  It  may  give  him  absurd  fancies,  wildest 
dreams,  sheerest  nonsense,  but  it  must  give  him  some 
thing.  It  may  shut  him  up  to  annihilation,  but  it  must  not 
leave  him  to  dwell  with  the  silence  of  agnosticism.  It 
must  give  him,  in  no  wise,  doctrine  ;  not  at  all  creed  ;  not, 
necessarily,  piety  toward  God  or  man  ;  but  freedom,  un- 
limitation,  a  beyond,  and  a  hereafter  ! 

George  Eliot,  with  brain  surcharged  with  richest  thought 
arid  choicest,  carefulest  culture ;  with  heart  to  hold  all 
humanity,  if  that  could  save ;  with  tongue  of  men  and 
angels  to  tell  the  knowledge  of  her  intellect,  the  charity  of 
her  heart — yet,  having  not  faith,  becomes,  for  all  of  satisfac 
tion  that  she  gives  the  soul,  but  sounding  brass  and  tinkling 
cymbal  !  She  will  not  bid  me  hope  when  she  herself  has 
no  assurance  of  the  thing  hoped  for.  She  must  not  speak 


19 

of  faith  in  the  unknown.  She  cannot  be  cruel,  but  she  can 
be  dumb  ;  and  so  her  long  procession  of  glorious  thoughts, 
and  sweet  humanities,  and  noblest  ethics,  arid  stern  renunci 
ations,  and  gracious  common  lots,  and  lofty  ideal  lives,  with 
their  scalding  tears,  and  bursting  laughter,  and  flaming 
passion — all  that  enters  into  mortal  life  and  time's  story — 
makes  its  matchless  march  before  our  captured  vision  up  to 
— the  stone-wall.  "And  here,"  she  says,  "is  the  end!" 
We  may  accept  her  dictum  and  be  brave,  silent,  unde 
ceived,  and  undeceiving  agnostics  ;  but,  as  such,  we  must 
say  to  her  (of  "  The  Spanish  Gypsy,"  for  instance),  "This 
is  not  poetry  !  It  is  the  richest  realism,  presenting  indubi 
table  phenomena  from  which  you  draw,  with  strictest  sci 
ence,  best  deduction  and  inference  concerning  the  known  or 
the  knowable.  But,  by  virtue  of  all  this,  it  is  not  poetry. 
The  flattering  lies  and  pretty  guesses  are  not  there,  and 
•will  be  missed.  You  must,  put  them  in  as  do  the  Chris 
tians,  the  transcendentalists,  and  the  fools  generally.  The 
*  poet  '  comes  from  these  ranks.  If  you  will  persist  in 
this  sheer  stop  when  you  reach  the  confines  of  the  known, 
you  must  not  attempt  to  pass  your  work  off  as  poetry. 
Even  pagans  will  not  be  attracted  by  such  verse.  They 
want  and  will  have  predication.  It  is  not  so  much  that 
you  do  not  know — nobody  knows — as  that  you  will  not 
guess,  or  dream,  or  fancy,  to  their  whim  ;  that  you  will  be 
so  plainly,  simply  silent  concerning  the  hereafter.  Your 
readers  will  not  endure  that  in  poetry.  There  was  John 
Milton,  his  learning  as  great  as  yours,  his  metres  not 
more  exact,  yet  nothing  saves  his  Paradises  from  being 
theological  treatises  except  the  imagination  in  them,  which 
stops  not  with  the  seen,  but  invades  and  appropriates  the 


20         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

unseen.  This  blind  old  Titan  sees  and  interprets  the 
heavens  by  his  inner  vision.  His  sublime  a,udacity  of  faith 
aerates  the  ponderous  craft  of  his  verse  and  keeps  it  from 
sinking  into  the  abyss  of  theologic  pedantry. 

"Mi-s.  Browning,  with  her  careless  verbosity,  still  makes 
her  '  Aurora'  an  immortal,  because  both  she  and  Aurora 
believe  in  immortality.  But  your  self-contained  verse  will 
scarcely  give  long  human  life  to  your  beloved  Feldama. 
However  much  she  bids  us 

' .  .  .  Think  of  me  as  one  who  sees 
A  light  serene  and  strong  on  one  sole  path, 
"Which  she  will  tread  till  death. 
.  .  .  though  I  die  alone, 
A  hoary  woman  on  the  altar  step, 
Cold  'mid  cold  ashes.     That  is  my  chief  good. 
The  deepest  hunger  of  a  faithful  heart 
Is  faithfulness.     Wish  me  naught  else ' — 

still  your  readers  will  persist  in  wishing  her  something  else, 
because  they  will  hope  and  believe  there  is  a  '  good  ' 
beyond  what  she  calls  the  chief — a  good  toward  which  that 
good  is  but  a  means.  Her  supreme  renunciation  will  blight 
her  story,  and  men  will  never  take  it  in  exchange  for  or  in 
company  with  that  of  the  gushing  Aurora.  Your  sound 
science  and  morality  will  win  from  them  only  silence,  but 
they  will  applaud  forever  such  outbursts  of  feeling  as  this 
of  Aurora's  : 

'  .  .  .  There's  not  a  flower  of  spring 
That  dies  ere  June  but  vaunts  itself  allied, 
By  issue  and  symbol,  by  significance 
And  correspondence,  to  that  spirit-world 
Outside  the  limits  of  our  sphere  and  time 


GEORGE    ELIOT'8    POETRY.  21 

Whereto  we  are  bound.    Let  poets  give  it  voice 
With  human  meanings,  else  they  miss  the  thought, 
And  henceforth  step  down  lower,  stand  confessed, 
Instructed  poorly  ior  interpreter.' 

"  There  is  that '  horse-faced '  Wordsworth  !  His  'drowsy, 
frowsy '  '  Excursion '  might  still  be  gathering  dust  on  Mr. 
Cottle's  bookshelves  but  for  his  '  Intimations  of  Immor 
tality,'  which  caught  the  ear  of  the  unscientific  people — 
always  longing  for  such  intimations — and  forthwith  he  is 
become  poeta  nascitur.  This  is  a  very  unmeaning  state 
ment  : 

'  Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather, 
Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore.' 

**  Yet  the  sentiment  of  these  words  fell  in  with  the  drift  of 
human  vagary  for  all  time.  Your  noble,  safe,  scientific 
utterances  will  drop,  dead  and  unregarded,  beside  it.  It 
must  be  after  many  generations  have  been  instructed  in 
our  first  principles  of  true  knowledge  that  your  verse  will 
be  received  as  poetry." 

Even  so,  Agnostic  1 

IY. 

Perhaps  these  two  qualities  of  which  I  have  spoken— the 
one  extrinsic,  as  of  the  body  ;  the  other  intrinsic,  as  of  the 
mind  ;  the  one  sensuous,  the  other  spiritual — may  not,  in 
the  last  analysis,  be  distinguishable,  because  the  one  is  sine 


22         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

qua  non  of  the  other.  To  use  the  language  of  one  of  the 
agnostics,  in  treating  of  these  qualities,  it  may  come  to  be 
"  immaterial  whether  spirit  be  expressed  in  terms  of  matter, 
or  matter  in  terms  of  spirit. "  "With  poeta  nascitur  it  is 
difficult  to  separate  the  material  body  from  the  spiritual 
body,  to  say  which  is  form,  which  spirit.  This, 

"...  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants, 
Begins  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward  shape, 
******* 
And  turn  it,  by  degrees,  to  the  soul's  essence. " 

George  Eliot  herself  says,  in  a  private  letter  lately  given  to 
the  public,  referring  to  the  evolution  of  her  Dinah  from 
the  germ  sown  in  her  mind  years  before  by  the  person  of 
an  aunt,  and  speaking  of  the  unlikeness  of  the  two,  as  well 
as  the  likeness,  "The  difference  was  not  merely  physical. 
No  difference  is." 

No  one  knows  better  than  George  Eliot  knew  how  the 
spiritual  body  gives  curve,  and  feature,  and  expression  to 
the  material  body.  Mrs.  Browning  herself  did  not  more 
keenly  realize  and  everywhere  acknowledge  the  truth  that 
spirit  makes  the  form. 

"...  Inward  evermore 
To  outward,  so  in  life  and  so  in  art, 
Which  still  is  life." 

No  one  bows  with  profounder  recognition  to  the  dictum 
"  it  is  the  spirit  which  quickeneth"  than  does  the  author  of 
"Adam  Bede"  and  "The  Spanish  Gypsy."  It  is  this 
which  she  thinks  it  worth  while  to  teach,  without  which  she 
would  have  no  heart  to  teach  at  all.  But  her  teaching 
takes  its  shape  from  the  attitude  of  her  own  soul. 


23 

To  epitomize,  then.  George  Eliot's  pages  arc  a  labyrinth 
of  wonder  and  beauty  ;  crowded  with  ethics  lofty  and  pure 
as  Plato's  ;  with  human  natures  fine  and  fresh  as  Shake 
speare's  ;  but  a  labyrinth  in  which  you  lose  the  guiding 
cord  !  With  the  attitude  and  utterance  of  her  spirit  con 
fronting  me,  I  cannot  allow  her  verse  to  be  poetry.  She  is 
the  raconteur,  not  the  vates  /  the  scientist,  not  the  seer. 


RECIPROCITY. 


RECIPROCITY. 

THE  word  reciprocity  is  used  to  denote  the  quid  pro  quo 
which  inheres  in  all  our  relations  with  each  other — the  give 
and  take  of  the  common  lot ;  those  mutualities  which  the 
mere  fact  of  living  makes  our  privilege  and  our  duty  ;  the 
debit  and  credit  of  every-day  affairs  ;  the  roll  of  our  liabili 
ties  and  assessments  as  members  of  the  great  firm  of 
humanity.  Shakespeare  said.  All  the  world's  a  stage, 
and  men  and  women  are  the  actors.  And  his  paraphrase 
has  in  it  a  great  deal  of  truth,  if  a  great  deal  of  poetry  ; 
doubtless  there  is  something  of  the  actor  in  each  one  of  us  ; 
doubtless  you  and  I  occasionally  drop  the  common  gait  and 
slip  into  a  grandiose  stage- walk  ;  doubtless  we  assume  a  role 
we  were  not  born  to,  and  play  our  little  play  upon  occa 
sions,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so  until  the  final  drop  of  the 
curtain.  But  I  think  that  to  say  all  the  world  is  a  market, 
and  men  and  women  are  the  buyers  and  the  sellers,  would 
have  in  it  more  of  truth  if  less  of  poetry.  Indeed,  this  is 
the  strictest  verity.  All  the  world  is  a  market,  and  it  is  a 
market  all  the  time  ;  and  all  the  men  and  women  are  buy 
ing  and  selling,  and  buying  and  selling  all  the  time.  The 
barter  never  ceases  ;  we  are  constantly  offering  something 
in  exchange  for  something  else,  and  constantly  having  like 
bargains  pressed  upon  us.  This  is  the  situation  ;  into  it  we 
are  born.  It  is  not  of  our  making,  and  cannot  be  of  our 


28         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

unmaking.  "We  are  so  related  to  each  other  that  we 
are  perforce  giving  and  taking,  and  we  cannot  be  other 
wise. 

It  is  the  aspiration  of  many  a  soul  to  be  self-sufficing. 
Independence  is  a  butterfly  we  chase  summer  and  winter, 
but  we  never  catch  it.  Among  all  delusions  by  which  we 
flatter  ourselves  in  this  market  of  life,  I  know  of  none  more 
honest  and  more  vain  than  this,  that  we  are  actually  inde 
pendent,  that  we  depend  only  upon  ourselves,  that  no  one  is 
necessary  to  us. 

Perhaps  not  one  of  us  is  without  a  personal  convincing  ex 
perience  of  the  impossibility  of  standing  alone  in  this  world. 
I  suspect  a  brief  experience  is  sufficient ;  it  is  one  of  which  we 
are  not  proud,  and  which  we  are  not  eager  to  exhibit.  In 
truth,  it  is  ridiculous  if  not  pathetic,  this  attempt  to  get  along 
alone — ridiculous  because  so  plainly  to  other  eyes  a  failure  ; 
pathetic  because  to  one's  own  eyes  the  ridiculousness  is  so 
invisible.  Occasionally  a  conspicuous  example  illustrates 
our  proposition.  Witness  beautiful,  wayward  Thoreau, 
astride  of  his  preferred  pumpkin  in  his  wilderness,  lord  over 
no  man,  lorded  over  by  none,  and  believing  himself  inde 
pendent  of  heart,  independent  of  head,  as  he  was  indepen 
dent  in  all  material  affairs.  Yet  let  his  own  charming  con 
fession,  albeit  unconscious,  show  us  how  his  human  heart 
unloaded  itself  of  love  to  sylvan  creatures.  What  perfect 
reciprocity  of  affection  was  between  him  and  the  squirrels, 
birds,  fishes  !  How  his  large,  involuntary  loviugness  de 
pended  on  them  for  companionship  !  How  that  intellect 
which  he  deprived  of  converse  with  the  living,  yet  held 
communion  in  that  wilderness  with  the  sages  and  seers  of 
the  past  1  How  his  mind  depended  on  their  intellectual 


RECIPROCITY.  29 

camaraderie — none  the  less,  to  Thoreau,  camaraderie,  be 
cause  wholly  ghostly. 

Many  a  one  has  had  Thoreau's  dream,  few  have  come  so 
near  realizing  it  as  he  ;  and  he  utterly  failed  of  it.  Aristotle 
said  :  "  Whosoever  is  delighted  in  solitude  is  either  a  wild 
beast  or  a  god."  We  have  in  us  a  good  deal  of  each,  but 
yet  we  are  neither,  and  self  alone  could  never  suffice  us. 
No  ;  independence,  in  an  absolute  sense,  is  an  impossibility. 
The  nature  of  things  is  against  it.  The  human  soul  was 
not  made  to  contain  itself.  It  was  made  to  spill  over,  and 
it  does  and  will  spill  over,  always  as  quid  pro  quo,  where 
soever  lodged,  to  the  end  of  time.  Reciprocity,  constant 
and  equal,  among  all  His  creatures  is  the  plan  of  the 
only  Maker  of  plans,  whose  plans  never  fail  in  the  least  jot 
or  tittle.  He  has  reserved  to  Himself  the  power  to  give 
without  receiving.  Everywhere,  even  among  rudest  nations, 
has  this  principle  of  reciprocity  between  man  and  man  been 
recognized,  and  ideals  of  governments  have  been  erected 
on  it. 

Yes,  life  is  a  market,  and  men  and  women  are  the 
marketers.  There  is  no  getting  away  from  it.  Young 
men  and  young  women  stand  at  the  threshold  of  their 
career,  and  debate  what  shall  be  their  calling.  It  is  a  mat 
ter  of  choice.  They  are  free  to  select  their  pursuit  or  pro 
fession.  But  the  circumscribing  profession  has  already 
swept  its  line  around  them  ;  they  are  not  free  here.  Into  this 
or  that  vocation  were  they  born,  and  the  vocation  they 
choose  is  included  in  this  hereditary  one.  Some  stand  in 
the  marketplace  of  life  as  preachers,  some  as  teachers,  some 
as  physicians,  some  as  jacks-of-all-trades,  jobbers,  old-maid 
aunts — whose  profession  is  more  imperious  than  any  I  know. 


30         GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

But  however  our  services  are  sub-rented,  each  stands 
indentured  to  the  law  of  the  overload  of  life,  the  law  of 
reciprocity.  Consciously  or  unconsciously  life  is  but  one 
long  quid  pro  quo. 

"  We  cannot  live,  except  thus  mutually 
We  alternate,  aware  or  unaware, 
The  reflex  act  of  life  ;  and  when  we  bear 
Our  virtue  outward,  most  impulsively, 
Most  full  of  invocation,  and  to  be 
Most  instantly  compellent,  certes,  there 
We  live  most  life,  whoever  breathes  most  air 
And  counts  his  dying  years  by  sun  and  sea  1" 


A  very  large  proportion  of  what  we  consciously  or  uncon 
sciously  offer  in  exchange  is  on  the  surface  ;  it  is  what  we 
call  manners.  I  beg  you  to  consider  what  is  the  extent  of 
the  realm  of  manners  ;  how  it  covers  the  whole  outside  of 
us.  It  is  what  we  present  to  the  eye  of  the  world.  It 
is  all  from  which  any,  save  the  very  few  who  go  beneath 
the  surface  with  us,  have  to  judge  from.  How  constantly 
we  are  confessing  this  fact  in  our  excuses  for  our  friend, 
whose  manners  offend  some  one  who  knows  him  less  in 
timately  than  we  do  !  We  say,  "  Oh,  you  must  not  mind 
that  ;  he  did  not  mean  anything  by  it ;  it  is  only  his  man 
ner  !"  But  all  the  same,  this  which  we  plead  is  only  his 
manner  has  made  its  indelible  impression.  Your  manner, 
your  use  or  abuse  of  the  forms  of  social  life,  the  surface 
you  offer,  ia  the  most  extensive,  if  not  the  deepest,  depart- 


EECIPEOCITY.  31 

ment  of  your  commercial  transactions  in  this  realm  of  com 
merce  which  we  are  considering.  Your  enemy  as  well  as 
your  friend  must  deal  with  you  here.  The  merest  ac 
quaintance  makes  some  exchange  with  you.  I  cannot  come 
in  from  a  walk  on  the  village  street  without  something  more 
or  less  than  when  1  started  out.  Somebody  has  offered  me 
a  smile,  and  1  have  given  something  back.  A  genuine 
smile  generally  brings  its  price  in  a  genuine  smile  back. 
Somebody  has  saluted  me  respectfully,  and  that  person  is 
paid  in  his  own  coin. 

But  the  manners  which  I  know  I  offer,  the  bows  I  can  see 
myself  making,  the  attitudes  I  take,  the  greetings,  the 
forms  of  social  deportment,  the  conversation,  the  acquired 
and  conscious  reciprocity  here,  however  important,  sink 
into  insignificance  beside  the  unconscious,  the  impossible 
to  acquire.  And  here  we  come  to  the  gravest  consid 
eration  of  all  ;  here  we  strike  upon  the  truth  which  con 
nects  the  department  of  surface  manners  with  the  deepest 
depths  and  the  highest  heights.  Conscious  and  acquired 
manners  we  may,  though  not  wisely,  sneer  at ;  we  may  refer 
them  to  the  realm  of  the  dancing-master  and  silly  little  gilt- 
edged  books  on  etiquette  ;  but  the  surface  which  is  uncon 
scious,  and  which  cannot  be  acquired,  and  which,  nolens 
volen8t  we  must  present — that  has  nothing  in  common  with 
the  Turveydrops.  That  belongs  to  the  realm  of  the  seers, 
and  the  philosophers,  and  the  theologians.  For  no  study 
of  social  forms  can  prevent  the  thoughts  of  the  brain,  the 
intents  of  the  heart  striking  through  the  surface.  The  real 
grain  will  show  beneath  the  varnish.  This  unconscious  and 
self-revealing  give  and  take  in  th,e  surface-life  prevail- 
everywhere  and  always,  even  in  books  whose  writers  havo 


32         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

passed  away.  I  do  not  suppose  Dr.  Johnson  was  aware  that 
he  was  offering  battle  to  his  readers  when  he  bargained 
with  his  bookseller.  I  suppose  the  conscious  bargain  be 
tween  himself  and  his  readers  was  that  of  wit,  and  wisdom, 
and  learning  in  exchange  for  fame.  But  an  linconscious 
bonus  was  thrown  in.  The  great  lexicographer's  rudeness, 
his  gratuitous  insults,  his  grinding  small  and  grinding  all — in 
short,  his  manners,  were  an  inseparable  part  of  his  wares 
and  of  himself,  and  his  buyers  return  him  dislike  with  their 
admiration.  I  do  not  suppose  the  young  lady  whom  Lamb 
has  immortalized  as  "Hester"  was  conscious  of  that  historic 
smile  of  hers,  so  lavishly  squandered  in  her  morning  saluta 
tion  to  the  little  essayist.  She  was  unconscious  that  he  got 

from 

..."  her  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
That  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away." 

And  she  got  in  return  an  immortality  as  long  as  Lamb's. 
It  was  simply  a  matter  of  manners  on  her  part.  Your  man- 
ners  and  mine  are  not  so  much  our  own  as  they  are  some 
body  else's.  Manners  are  made  in  the  market  where  they 
are  sold,  and  their  buying  and  their  selling  are  mostly 
unconscious.  A  man  is  known  by  the  company  he  keeps. 
One  must  be  Carlyle  himself  if  he  can  keep  CarJyle's  man 
ners,  in  constant  company  with  Jane  Welch,  and  the  gentle 
spirits  that  scintillated  around  her.  Observe  how  Dante's ' 
manners  differ  as  he  moves  among  the  circles  of  the  Inferno  I 
and  the  Paradiso,  and  how  uniformly  he  was  the  poet  to 
Virgil. 


EECIPEOCITY.  33 


II. 

Thoughts  are  a  prime  article  of  commerce.  The  in- 
tellectual  life  is  everywhere  that  of  reciprocity  ;  the  prod- 
acts  of  the  brain  are  articles  of  constant  export  and  import. 
So  true  is  this,  so  continual  and  confused  is  the  barter, 
that  we  sometimes  cannot  tell  if  we  bring  a  thought  to  or 
from  the  market ;  the  meum  and  tuum  become  involved. 

But  there  can  be  no  monopoly  here.  People  sometimes 
say  :  "I  have  no  goods  in  this  line  ;  it  is  not  my  depart 
ment  of  the  market.  You  must  go  to  the  professional  think 
ers,  to  the  teachers,  and  preachers,  and  bookmakers,  and 
newspaper  men. "  So  the  unprofessional  thinkers  keep  their 
thoughts  to  themselves,  and  corners  are  created.  And  there 
is  no  nobler  work  that  any  one  of  you  could  set  yourself  to 
than  to  break  up  these  intellectual  corners.  We  must  begin 
this  worthy  work  by  being  honest.  We  must  open  our  gran 
aries,  and  offer  our  hoarded  thoughts  in  exchange.  There  is 
a  vast  amount  of  thinking  which  ought  to  be  in  the  market. 
We  hold  our  best  thoughts,  and  give  our  second  best.  It 
never  occurs  to  us  that  we  are  dishonest  in  deal  here.  Or, 
if  any  one  accuses  us  of  a  debt  in  this  direction,  we  get  off 
with  one  excuse  or  another,  which  seems  to  us  sufficient  and 
even  creditable.  How  many  of  us  excuse  this  second-best 
character  of  the  thoughts  we  give  to  others  in  conversation, 
by  the  plea  that  we  are  not  original  thinkers,  that  we  have  no 
original  ideas  !  A  lame  and  impotent  conclusion,  and  no 
excuse  at  all.  Nothing  is  worse  for  you  than  to  think  your 
self  not  an  original  person,  except  to  think  that  you  are 
an  original  person.  Do  not  flatter  yourself  in  either  direc- 


34:         GEOBGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

tion.  You  are  as  original  as  anybody  else,  and  no  more  so. 
There  are  no  original  people,  in  fact.  Everybody  thinks, 
and  everybody  tkinks  about  everything.  Adam  was  the  last 
original  thinker.  It  is  not  likely  there  have  been  any  new 
thoughts  outside  the  Garden  of  Eden.  That  which  wins 
for  the  thinker  -the  title  of  original  is  not  the  newness — • 
or  firstness — of  his  thoughts  ;  but  the  newness,  perhaps 
firstness,  of  his  expression  of  them  in  their  relation  to  other 
thoughts,  their  method  and  extent  of  elaboration.  That  this 
is  true  is  proven  by  the  reception  given  the  original  think 
ers,  preachers,  writers,  teachers.  At  once  they  are  called 
original,  and  the  fact  that  they  are  called  so  proves  that 
they  are  not  so.  It  is  because  their  thoughts  are  the  very 
thoughts  of  their  hearers,  readers,  scholars,  but  so  surpris 
ingly  dressed  up,  come  at  by  routes  so  unfamiliar,  con 
fronted  so  unexpectedly,  elaborated  to  such  distinctness. 
It  is  not  an  introduction  to  a  stranger,  but  the  sudden 
encounter  with  an  old  friend,  altered,  wonderfully  im 
proved,  developed  beyond  our  dreams,  but  still  the  one  we 
knew  before.  It  is  only  because  it  is  our  very  own  that  we 
are  so  delighted,  so  thrilled.  We  call  him  original  who 
makes  us  original  ;  for  he  makes  us  discover  ourselves  to  be 
thinkers  also.  The  transition  from  unconscious  to  con 
scious  thought  is  education.  Learning  a  thing  truly  is  but 
recognizing  it.  A  scholar  never  knows  his  lesson  until  he 
understands  it,  and  understanding  it  is  thinking  it  for  him 
self.  When  he  says  at  last  of  his  problem,  "I  understand 
it,"  he  says,  "  That  is  my  own  thought."  He  confesses 
that  it  would  be  a  possibility  for  him  to  have  written  the 
geometry. 

It   should  be  our  serious  business   to  become  conscious 


RECIPROCITY.  35 

of  our  own  thoughts  ;  to  stand  in  the  great  intellectual  marts 
of  life,  aware  that  we  have  a  right  there,  that  all  its  treas 
ures  are  free  to  us  by  reason  of  stock-ownership. 

We  can  do  no  better  work  than  to  stimulate  the  utterance 
of  thought.  Mrs.  Browning's  conversation,  it  is  said,  was 
pre-eminently  tete-b-tete.  She  was  a  most  conscientious  and 
magnetic  listener.  She  compelled  reciprocity  of  thought. 
Madame  de  Stae'l  was  great  in  talking,  but  George  Eliot 
was  greater  in  making  other  people  talk.  I  am  con 
vinced  that  people  think  enough  ;  it  is  the  utterance 
of  thought  that  is  needed.  If  the  habit  of  brave  attempt 
at  this  utterance  could  be  formed,  and,  despite  all  criti 
cism,  be  persevered  in,  how  much  more  should  we  give  to 
each  other  !  What  a  world  of  enjoyment  and  improvement 
would  spring  up  !  How  Athenian  would  Yankee  life  be 
come  !  A  Socrates  at  every  doorway,  an  Aspasia — without 
Aspasia's  reproach — at  every  tea-urn,  full  of  discourse  that 
would  exclude  the  weary  pettiness  of  thoughtless  talk.  Do 
this  for  your  neighbors,  and  you  will  be  to  them  Ferdinands 
and  Isabellas,  making  of  them  the  discoverers  of  more  than 
a  continent,  for  they  will  discover  themselves  ;  and  you  will 
pay  to  them  the  debt  you  owe  to  those  who  have  done  the 
same  for  you.  But  do  not  conceive  yourself  an  original 
person.  It  is  a  snare  and  a  delusion. 


III. 

It  is  not  in  the  superficial  reciprocities  of  social  life, 
in  the  realm  of  manners,  in  the  exchange  of  courtesies  and 
forms — not  in  the  commerce  of  intellectual  life,  in  tlio 


36          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

interchange  of  thought,  that  the  law  of  reciprocity  is  most 
influential.  It  is  in  the  affections  that  we  make  our  best 
and  worst  bargains,  our  most  saving  and  most  ruinous 
exchanges. 

In  the  fresh  young  years  of  our  lives  there  is  a  fa 
cility  of  feeling,  a  readiness  of  devotion,  a  reckless  expendi 
ture  of  faith  and  love.  We  who  have  forever  passed  be 
yond  those  years  of  glorious  prodigality  may  well  expend  a 
sigh  upon  their  loss,  and  deem  the  calculating  wisdom  of  our 
later  lives  a  dubious  exchange.  Oh,  those  days  of  opulent 
bankruptcy,  when  we  were  rich  in  outlawed  debts  of  friend 
ship — those  wealthy  insolvencies,  when  we  owed  everybody, 
and  everybody  owed  us,  love,  and  faith,  and  loyalty  !  How 
quickly  did  our  broken  banks  begin  again  their  reckless 
discount  !  How  promptly  were  our  foreclosed  mortgages 
of  heart  re-leased  !  . 

Are  you  suffering,  and  do  you  attribute  your  suffering 
to  unreciprocated  affection?  Your  diagnosis  is  wrong. 
You  are  the  victim  again  of  a  delusion.  Less  possible  than 
absolute  independence,  than  original  thought,  is  unrecipro 
cated  affection.  I  do  not  undertake  to  convince  you  of  this 
truth.  I  am  content  to  state  it,  and  leave  its  demonstration 
to  the  long  run.  I  have  unbounded  faith  in  the  long  run. 
Sydney  Smith  said  that  in  order  to  preserve  contentment 
we  must  take  short  views  of  life.  I  think  in  order  to  pre 
serve  contentment  we  must  take  long  views,  very  long 
ones.  Your  affection  was  not  unrequited.  Something 
came  back  for  it,  if  it  was  genuine,  and  something  that  was 
quid  pro  quo.  I  never  condole  with  the  person  of  "  blighted 
affections,'  because  I  know  that  to  true  affection  no  blight  is 


BECIPROCITY.  37 

possible.  Its  argosies  are  out  at  sea  ;  they  have  not  made 
their  desired  haven,  but  they  will  cruise  around  and  come 
back  with  a  Golden  Fleece. 

A  flirt  is  the  most  harmless  person  in  the  world.  A 
genuine  flirtation  is  the  fairest  bargain  possible — nothing 
for  nothing,  nihil  ex  nihilo.  The  battle  is  like  that  be 
tween  Milton's  Michael  and  Satan — if  one  gets  hurt,  he  re 
covers  immediately — for  flirts  are  ethereal  creatures  ;  you 
can  walk  through  them  and  not  know  there  is  anything 
there  ;  like  those  Miltonic  spirits,  they 

"...  can  in  all  their  liquid  texture  mortal  wound 
Receive  no  more  than  can  the  fluid  air." 

It  is  all  a  matter  of  tenuous  reciprocity. 

Shall  we  speak  of  our  bargains  in  love  and  friendship  ? 
Shall  we  venture  to  argue  the  question  of  reciprocity  be 
tween  us  and  our  friends  ?  Ah,  how  little  patience  we 
should  have  in  the  attempt  !  How  well  we  are  aware  of  the 
generous  barter  ;  how  certain  we  are  that  we  are  the  gain 
ers  ;  how  assured  that  in  every  true  friend  we  have  the  best 
of  the  bargain  ! 

There  is,  indeed,  no  room  for  argument  here.  Love 
balances  all  accounts.  In  place  of  argument  the  story  of 
Richard,  lion-hearted,  comes  to  me  ;  of  Richard  languish 
ing  a  captive,  hidden  from  sight  and  sound  of  any  comrade 
in  an  enemy's  land  ;  of  Blondel,  standing  finally,  after  long 
and  vain  search,  beneath  that  prison-window,  and  sending 
up  to  it,  by  way  of  experiment,  one  couplet  from  a  song 
he  and  his  royal  friend  had  composed  and  sung  together. 
Instantly  the  next  verse  comes  floating  from  behiud  the 


A  rr  Q  Q  Q 


38         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

prison  grating  down  to  Blondel,  and  Richard  is  discovered 
and  regained. 

Such  is  the  reciprocity  of  hearts,  so  souls  wander  in 
search  of  each  other,  so  many  a  royal  heart  languishes  in 
exile,  till  beneath  its  prison-bars  love  stands  and  sings  its 
own  familiar  and  enchanting  song  ! 

But  now  comes  the  practical  consideration  of  our  subject 
in  the  questions  which  are  its  logical  outcome.  What  is 
our  personal  status  in  the  market,  what  the  ethics  that  regu 
late  our  reciprocal  transactions  ?  Are  we  making  good  bar 
gains  ?  Are  we  honest  in  deal  ?  Are  we  getting  rich  or 
poor  ?  How  is  it  in  the  department  of  manners  ?  Man 
ners  are  not  character,  but  they  are  the  dress  of  character. 
Character  does  not  at  once  show  for  itself  ;  manners  show 
for  it.  How  have  we  clothed  our  character  ?  Does  its 
dress  do  it  justice  ?  Does  it  fitly  present  it  to  the  eye  ?  If 
not,  then  we  are  unfair  in  deal  writh  a  double  dishonesty  — 
injustice  to  ourselves  and  injustice  to  others.  Others  in 
vest  in  what  they  believe  to  be  ourselves,  according  as  our 
manners  present  us  to  them  ;  and  whether  they  are  deceived 
in  their  investment  or  not  is  our  responsibility  in  the  dress 
we  give  our  characters.  Our  manners  may  cheat  other  peo 
ple  to  our  ad  vantage  or  our  disadvantage.  They  should  yield 
us  a  good  income.  Manners  are  of  the  surface  and  of 
the  moment.  They  do  not  have  to  do  with  the  depths  and 
the  long  run  ;  yet  it  is  by  the  surface  that  we  enter  tha 
depths,  and  the  moments  make  the  long  run. 

For  all  that  others,  our  teachers,  our  preachers,  our  authors, 
have  painfully  forged  out  into  shapely  gold  for  our  enrich- 
ment,  what  are  we  returning  ?  What  is  our  thought  within 
us,  what  is  it  without  ?  When  a  high  thought  comes,  do 


KECIPEOCITY.  39 

we  fling  it  abroad  with  liberal  soul,  or  do  ^6  fold  it  away 
in  a  napkin  that  becomes  its  grave-cloth  ?  If  we  do  this 
latter,  then  we  are  dishonest  in  deal,  for  we  owe  that  thought 
to  the  world.  A  great  deal  of  this  interment  of  our  best 
thought-life  is  justified  to  ourselves  by  the  plea  that  such 
thoughts  are  too  sacred  for  utterance  :  a  wretched  sophistry, 
a  miserable  excuse  for  what  is  really  our  fear  of  criticism, 
our  shamefaced  ness  of  spiritual  life.  There  are  some  peo- 
pie  who  seem  to  be  afraid  of  nothing  so  much  as  that  they 
will  cast  their  pearls  before  swine.  I  have  observed  that 
these  people  are  not  apt  to  be  the  best  judges  of  either 
pearls  or  pork. 

Ah  me  !  what  does  our  tasteless  babble  need  so  much  as 
the  savor  of  high  thought  ?  What  do  we  need  so  much  to 
see  as  tiiat  which  is  sacred  ?  Who  of  us  cannot  recall  the 
magic  transmutation  that  took  place  when,  some  time  in 
the  midst  of  idle  talk,  a  brave  soul  threw  down  a  golden 
thought  amid  all  the  clattering  rubbish — some  gleam  from 
the  life  of  the  spirit,  some  sacred  jewel  of  inner  life  ?  How 
it  hushed  the  chatter  !  How  grateful,  if  rebuked,  we  felt  ! 
How  encouraged  ourselves  to  utter  that  which  we  had  not 
dared  to  speak  when  all  utterance  was  so  different  from  it ! 
How  much  more  this  brave  spirituality  of  our  friend  has 
helped  us  than  any  words  that  came  to  us  from  priest  or 
from  poet,  from  pulpit  or  from  book  !  We  can  do  no 
braver  or  better  thing  than  to  bring  our  best  thoughts  to  the 
every- day  market.  They  will  yield  us  usurious  interest. 

How  is  it  in  our  friendships  ?  Have  we  given  faith  for 
faith,  loyalty  for  loyalty,  truth  for  truth  ?  Have  our  hearts 
sought  out  the  needy  ?  Have  we  cast  our  bread  upon  the 
waters  ?  If  ye  love  them  that  love  you,  what  reward  have 


40          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

ye  ?  do  not  even  the  publicans  the  same  ?  Have  we  risen 
above  the  plane  of  the  publicans  ? 

These  are  among  the  most  weighty  questions  we  can  ask 
ourselves.  But  we  can  answer  them  only  in  part,  for  the 
greater  proportion  of  that  which  we  carry,  or,  rather,  which 
goes  with  us  to  the  world  of  social,  intellectual,  emotional, 
and  spiritual  life,  is  unconscious.  The  greater  part  of  that 
which  comes  to  us  is  unconscious.  It  makes  part  of  us,  but 
we  do  not  detect  ourselves  in  receiving  it.  Our  most  im 
portant  bargains  never  announce  themselves.  We  have  no 
scales  by  which  to  measure  these  commodities  of  brain,  and 
heart,  and  spirit.  "We  cannot  apply  the  mathematics  of  the 
money  market  here.  We  have  no  science  for  this  book- 
keeping  that  can  compass  all  its  complexity  of  exchanges, 
follow  the  winding  course  of  this  commerce  as  it  makes  its 
indirect  returns,  detect  the  subtle  equities  of  this  ceaseless, 
silent  reciprocity  ! 

But,  for  all  our  inability,  the  books  are  kept.  When  the 
long  run  has  run  out  we  shall  confront  exact  balances,  quid 
pro  qito,  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 

I  suppose  that  if  you  and  1  could  know  just  what  and  all 
were  the  elements  of  reciprocity  between  us,  and  all  who 
deal  with  us — just  what  was  being  exchanged  between  us, 
what  were  our  bargains,  and  who  the  parties  to  them,  we 
should  be  amazed,  perhaps  appalled.  Well  may  we  ask 
with  eagerness  how  the  market  is  to-day  ;  how  it  goes  on 
'Change.  For  everything  is  at  stake  here  ;  our  very  all  ia 
invested.  It  is  onlj  the  golden  rule,  "  Do  unto  others  as  ye 
would  that  they  should  do  unto  you,"  which  opens  to  us 
the  secret  of  fair  deal,  of  good  bargains,  of  wealth  incalcu 
lable  !  I  congratulate  you,  whoever  you  be.,  if  you  can 


RECIPROCITY.  41 

square  the  conscious  and  yet  more  the  unconscious  transac 
tions  in  the  barter  of  your  mental  and  spiritual  life  by  the 
measurements  of  this  rule.  This  is  the  chief  thing,  the  rule 
within  us.  Goethe  said,  "  It  is  the  spirit  in  which  we  act 
which  is  the  great  thing."  It  is  the  spirit  in  which  we 
traffic  which  is  the  great  thing.  It  is,  indeed,  all. 

We  may  well  be  thrilled  when  we  remember  how  constant 
and  how  instant  is  the  tide  of  reciprocity  'twixt  one  and 
all,  'twixt  brain,  and  heart,  and  spirit  of  all  who  live,  so  that 
not  one  can  say,  "  I  am  alone  ;  I  am  independent ;  I  am 
nothing  to  any  one  who  lives,  not  one  is  anything  to  me." 
We  may  well  exult  when  we  realize  the  dignity  it  puts  upon 
each  one  of  us  as  members  of  this  great  human  society  ;  the 
importance  with  which  it  clothes  us,  the  responsibility  with 
which  it  endows  u»j,  the  riches  to  wliick  it  iiiakeg  us  heir  1 


ALTRUISTIC    FAITH. 


ALTRUISTIC  FAITH. 

CADIJAH  !  What  image  does  the  name  evoke  ?  The 
image,  I  venture,  if  any,  of  a  very  distinct  and  magnificent 
face — of  eyes  dark  yet  glowing,  like  a  midnight  full  of  stars, 
of  flowing,  silky  beard,  of  turban  folded  over  prophetic 
locks — the  face,  not  at  all  of  Cadijah,  but  of  Mahomet. 
There  is  no  biography  of  Cadijah,  and  no  portrait.  All 
that  we  certainly  know  of  her  is  that  she  was  Mahomet's 
first  wife,  a  noble  and  wealthy  widow,  whom  he  wedded 
when  he  was  twenty -five  and  she  much  older,  and  to  whom 
he  was  singly  devoted  and  faithful  up  to  the  time  of  her 
death. 

How,  then,  may  this  woman,  standing  in  the  darkness 
which  gathers  around  the  vestibule  of  the  Middle  Ages, 
offer  from  her  poverty  of  resource  anything  worth  our 
while  to  consider,  we 

"  The  heirs  of  all  the  ages  in  the  foremost  files  of  time  "  ? 

Years  after  the  death  of  Cadijah,  when  Ayesha,  the 
beautiful  girl,  the  pet  child-wife  of  Mahomet's  old  age, 
arrogant  with  the  arrogance  of  a  beauty  and  a  favorite, 
attempted  to  rally  her  now  illustrious  and  powerful  husband 
upon  his  loyal  love  for  his  first  wife,  and  said  to  him, 
'*  Was  she  not  old  ?  and  has  not  God  given  you  a  better 
in  her  place  ?"  Mahomet  replied,  with  an  effusion  of  hon- 


4:6         @EORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

est  gratitude,  "  No,  by  Allah  !  there  can  never  be  a  better. 
She  believed  in  me  when  men  despised  me." 

"  She  believed  in  me  /•"  From  Mahomet's  own  lips  we 
have  our  question  answered.  Cadijah  offers  to  us  a 
splendid  and  immortal  example  of  the  effectual,  fervent 
faith  of  one  soul  in  another.  And  this  it  is  of  which  I 
have  to  speak.  Not  of  the  Mahomets,  except  by  implica 
tion,  but  of  Cadijah,  whose  faith  has  wrought  out  Ma 
homet,  since  ever  the  world  began  —  whose  faith  must 
still  evolve  him  so  long  as  the  world  lasts  and  Mahomets 
survive. 

Faith  is  a  Trinity.  It  is  one — faith  in  God  ;  and  it  is 
three — faith  in  God,  faith  in  self,  and  faith  in  human 
ity.  Faith  in  God  is  the  unit,  the  integral  designation 
of  this  Trinity,  for  it  includes  by  logical  necessity  both 
the  other  faiths.  Whether  men  admit  it  or  not,  faith 
in  ourselves  and  faith  in  our  brother  and  sister  human 
ity  follow  from,  our  faith  in  God,  and  if  that  faith  bo 
allowed  its  full  growth,  will  each  win  their  rightful  rank. 
But  because  our  faith  in  God  is  so  rarely  allowed,  its  full 
growth,  these  other  faiths — faith  in  ourselves  and  faith 
in  each  other — do  not  come  into  full  view  and  win  due 
recognition. 

We  repeat  our  creed,  "  1  believe  in  God,  the  Father," 
but  we  do  not  always  realize  that  this  creed  includes,  "  I 
believe  in  myself,"  and  u  I  believe  in  other  people."  Yet 
this  threefold  faith  should  be  taught.  A  true  belief  in 
God  is  threesided,  and  the  glory  of  the  God-side  was  never 
meant  to  obscure  the  brightness  of  the  other  two  sides,  but 
rather  to  render  them  conspicuous. 

It  is  of  the  most  neglected  of  these  minor  faiths  that  I 


ALTRUISTIC   FAITH.  47 

wish  to  speak — the  altruistic  faith,  or  faith  m  other  than 
self. 

By  the  term,  abstract  altruistic  faith,  I  mean  to  imply 
that  general  attitude  of  mind  which  is  hopeful  and  expect 
ant  of  humanity  ;  a  faith  in  human  nature's  intrinsic  worth 
and  capability  ;  a  faith  which  beholds  man,  as  in  Nebuchad 
nezzar's  dream,  sadly  and  mysteriously  mixed  of  things 
precious  and  things  base  ;  but  which  beholds  as  clearly  the 
head  of  fine  gold  and  the  breast  of  silver  as  the  feet  of 
iron  and  clay  ;  a  faith  that  the  race  is  steadily  gravitating 
toward  a  goal  of  final  good  rather  than  evil ;  a  faith  that, 
when  the  averages  of  the  ages  are  accurately  struck,  the 
leverage  will  be  found  to  be  constantly  upward,  not  down 
ward  ;  a  faith  that  humanity  is  persistently  electing  itself 
to  honor,  glory,  and  immortality  by  a  majority  which  se 
cures  to  the  same  party  all  future  canvasses  ;  a  faith  which 
wavers  not  an  instant  before  the  question,  however  cleverly 
put  by  the  pessimist,  "  Is  life  worth  living?"  but  responds 
with  an  immediate  and  hearty,  "  Yes,  a  thousand  times 
Yea!  Life  is  infinitely  worth  living!"  A  faith  which 
looks  into  poorhouses,  and  idiot  asylums,  and  penitentiaries 
— ay,  and  into  the  darkness  of  great  cities  by  night,  and 
still  believes  in  humanity  reclaimable,  however  marred  or 
fallen,  and  infinitely  worth  saving.  A  faith  which  con- 
templates  the  catastrophe  of  moral  obliquity  and  spiritual 
suicide  ;  of  the  mole  and  the  bat-life  of  thousands  of  us  ; 
of  the  leprous  spawn  of  human  beings  that  are  constantly 
thrown  upon  the  shores  of  life  only  to  contaminate  and 
curse,  and  yet  which  says,  with  Longfellow, 

"  I  believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human  ; 


48         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

That  in  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings, 

For  the  good  they  comprehend  not ; 

That  the  fe.eble  hands  and  helpless, 

Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 

Reach  God's  right-hand  in  that  darkness, 

And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened." 

But  the  abstract  faith  is  subordinate — an  effect  rather 
than  a  cause.  For  generalities  and  abstractions  do  not 
demand  our  prolonged  consideration.  Our  lives  are  not 
laid  out  in  vast,  vague  prairies,  but  in  definite  domestic 
door-yards,  within  which  we  are  to  exercise  and  develop 
our  faculties.  Altruistic  faith  in  the  abstract  is  most  valu 
able,  but  it  is,  at  best,  but  a  passive  rather  than  an  active 
possession.  "We  cannot  touch  humanity  at  large  except  as 
we  touch  humanity  in  the  individual.  Altruistic  faith  must 
exercise  itself  upon  concretions,  not  abstractions,  if  it  be  a 
real  power  for  good.  One  may  possess  a  whole  Milky  Way 
of  vague  general  belief  in  humanity,  and  yet  it  may  be  of 
less  avail  to  the  benighted  traveller  than  a  single  rushlight 
put  sympathetically  into  his  hand.  We  must  focus  our 
faith  upon  the  individual  in  order  to  get  or  to  give  the  good 
of  it. 

This  concrete  altruistic  faith  does  not  require  for  its  ex 
ercise  that  its  possessor  belong  to  the  female  sex.  The  con 
trary  idea  is,  I  fear,  deeply  rooted  in  the  public  mind. 
There  is  a  very  general  impression  that  it  is  in  the  nature 
of  things  that  woman  should  walk  principally  by  faith,  and 
that  this  faith  should  be  principally  altruistic.  I  myself 
confess  to  a  lurking  suspicion  that  it  is  oftener  a  woman 
than  a  man  who  is  a  Cadijah.  It  may  be  easier  for  a  woman 
to  believe  in  somebody  else  than  for  a  man  to  do  so.  Men, 


ALTRUISTIC    FAITH.  49 

as  a  rule,  are  very  much  occupied  with  believing  in  them- 
selves.  Woman  is  confessedly  altruistic,  but  not  exclusively 
so.  Carlyle  had  his  Cadijah  in  his  wife  ;  George  Eliot  had 
hers  in  her  husband. 

But  this  faith,  though  not  inconsistent  with  the  estate 
of  holy  matrimony,  is  yet  not  dependent  upon  that  estate. 
I  use  the  name  Cadijah  to  represent  the  character  of  an 
efficient  believer  in  somebody  else  ;  but  Cadijah  could  have 
exercised  her  faith  in  Mahomet  to  its  full  effect  on  his  fort 
unes  without  having  been  his  wife.  The  exercise  of  Mrs. 
Carlyle' s  faith  in  her  husband  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
exercise  of  her  hands  and  feet  upon  the  Craigenputtock 
kitchen-floor.  Cadijah  may  or  may  not  have  a  passionate 
personal  love  for  her  Mahomet,  but  she  will  not  be  so  "  in 
love"  with  him  as  to  induce  the  blindness  of  that  undesir 
able  condition.  Pascal  said  :  "  In  order  to  know  God  we 
must  love  Him  ;  in  order  to  love  man  we  must  know  him." 
1  am  not  sure  that  all  love  for  individual  man  depends  upon 
knowing  him  ;  there  is  love  and  love,  but  the  rational,  last 
ing  love  must  admit,  at  least,  if  not  demand,  for  its  persist 
ence,  some  real  acquaintanceship.  To  all  love  that  rightly 
culminates  in  marriage  there  is,  doubtless,  an  irrational 
phase,  a  normal  abnormality  that  may  or  may  not  outlast  the 
honeymoon,  arid  then  gives  place  to  something  better.  In 
this  period  no  Cadijah  can  flourish  ;  indeed,  the  conditions 
of  concrete  altruistic  faith  do  not  demand  the  conditions  of 
courtship  or  of  marriage.  Cadijah-ism  is  not  necessarily 
connubiality. 

Nor  is  this  faith  hero-worship.  We  all  have  our  heroes 
who  are  veritable  heroes  to  us,  frequently  for  no  other  rea 
son  than  because  we  cannot  be  idlete  to  them.  And  that 


50         GKORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKT,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

is  well  and  good.  But  the  one  to  whom  you  are  Cadijah 
will  not  be  a  hero  to  you.  You  will  serve  him,  but  you 
will  not  worship  him.  Cadijah  never  imagines,  as  do  the 
worshippers,  that  her  Mahomet  can  do  or  be  anything  he 
may  please,  or  she  may  please.  She  perceives  that  he  can 
do  and  be  one  thing,  and  possibly  that  this  is  the  thing 
which  pleases  him  not.  She  does  not  discover  him  to  be  a 
predestined  prophet  or  a  born  poet  because  her  love  or  am 
bition  elect  him  to  be  such.  It  may  be,  rather,  that  her  faith 
discerns  in  him  supreme  capabilities  for  a  dry -goods  clerk  or 
a  ranchman.  No.  Though  my  Cadijah  love  me  as  her  own 
soul,  and  have  set  her  whole  heart  on  me,  she  cannot,  this 
clear-eyed  Cadijah  of  mine,  persuade  herself  that  1  can 
be  what  I  cannot  be.  She  can  only  perceive  me  to  be 
what  1  can  be.  Cadijah  is  a  seer,  but  she  is  not  a  vision 
ary.  She  wields  a  diviner's  rod,  but  not  a  wizard's  wand. 
The  historical  Cadijah  was,  I  venture,  greatly  enamored  of 
her  young  and  handsome  lord.  But  I  am  not  sure  she 
thought  him  a  great  prophet  or  a  spotless  priest.  What 
I  am  sure  of  is,  that  this  shrewd,  devoted  woman  perceived 
him  to  be  a  born  predestined  leader,  a  man  of  destiny,  one 
to  sway  multitudes  with  the  mighty  magnetism  of  his  per 
sonality  ;  a  man  to  beckon  and  be  followed  ;  a  man  to 
speak  and  be  believed  ;  a  man  to  command  and  be  obeyed. 
She  saw  the  oak  in  the  acorn  with  this  sixth  sense  of  hers. 
She  believed  in  him  when  all  men  despised  him,  but  sne  did 
not  give  him  hero-worship. 

It  is  clear  that  to  Mrs.  Carlyle  her  husband  was  not  a 
hero.  As  an  apostle  of  silence  and  several  other  things  he 
was  a  great  joke  to  her.  But  as  a  man  of  ideas,  great,  gro 
tesque,  forceful,  propulsive,  full  of  the  vitality  of  immortal 


ALTRUISTIC    FAITH.  51 

genius,  worthy  and  destined  to  live  in  literature,  as  such  ehe 
t^;i\v  him  when  his  fame  was  yet  in  embryo.  And  this  faith 
of  hers  in  his  power  to  do  never  flagged  until  it  became 
sight  before  all  the  world,  a  wisdom  justified  of  her  chil 
dren.  And  this  is  not  hero-worship.  It  is  a  far  finer  and 
usefuler  thing. 

To  speak  affirmatively,  this  quality  of  the  Cadijahs  I  de 
fine  as  that  faculty  in  my  friend  by  which  he  discriminates  in 
me  what  I  am  good  for — nay,  what  1  am  best  for.  That  one 
•who  comes  to  me,  resolute  for  me  when  I  stand  irresolute 
for  myself,  at  that  point  in  my  straight  turnpike  where  by 
roads  fork  out  from  it — that  one  who  comes  to  me  while  1 
waver  in  view  of  the  old  highway  and  cast  lingering  glances 
at  the  new  byways,  and  who,  with  hand  uplifted  and  with 
finger  pointed  straight  before,  says  to  me,  with  emphasis  of 
unalterable  conviction,  u  This  is  your  way  ;  this,  no  other, 
the  path  which  leads  you  to  your  goal  !"  this  man,  or  this 
woman,  is  my  Cadijah.  He  may  or  may  not  have  vehement 
love  for  me,  but  if  he  has  vehement  faith  in  me,  and  gives 
me  the  benefit  of  its  momentum,  he  is  my  friend,  and 
"  there  can  never  be  a  better,"  for  he  believes  in  me  when 
a  worse  than  the  despising  of  men  has  befallen  me — the 
despising  of  myself  !  "  Quanct,  tout  est  perdu,  c*est  le 
moment  des  grandes  dmes,"  said  Lacordaire.  A  grand  soul 
is  Cadijah  ;  she  comes  to  me  when  all  is  lost !  How  com 
mon  to  us  all  is  the  experience  of  meeting  one  who  seems 
to  have  a  peculiar  insight  into  our  character,  so  that  we  say. 
"  He  divined  me."  How  often  do  we  hear  it  said,  u  Ho 
seems  to  understand  me  better  than  any  one  else.5'  u  She 
appreciates  me  more  truly  than  any  one  ever  has.'*  This 
quality  of  divination  is  the  intellectual  element  of  altru- 


52          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

istic  faith.  It  is  not  the  whole  of  it,  for  another  element 
lies  in  the  will  and  is  essential  ;  but  it  is  the  extraordinary 
element,  and  far  from  infrequent. 

The  one  is  gift,  the  other  grace.  The  one  prerogative, 
the  other  duty.  It  is  always  true  that  the  thing  that  ought 
to  be  done  is  the  thing  that  can  be  done.  It  is  not  always  true 
that  the  thing  that  can  be  done  is  the  thing  that  ought  to  be 
done.  But  in  the  exercise  of  altruistic  faith  there  is-  cer 
tainly  and  always  an  ought  where  there  is  a  can,  and  a 
can  where  there  is  an  ought.  When  the  intellect  says,  ' '  1 
can,"  the  heart  should  say,  I  will. 

Each  of  us  can  so  believe  in  humanity  in  general  as  to 
contribute  to  that  pressure  which  constantly  levers  up  the 
race  ;  can  surround  ourselves  with  an  atmosphere  optimistic 
rather  than  the  contrary  ;  can  believe  in  some  one  or  more 
individuals  so  as  to  be  the  determining  factor  in  their  careers, 
as  was  Cadi  jali  in  the  career  of  Mahomet,  as  was  Jane  "Welch 
in  the  career  of  Carlyle. 

I  never  knew  a  good  man  or  a  good  woman  who  was  not 
practically  an  optimist.  I  have  personally  known  several, 
impersonally  many,  who  were  not  nominally  optimists,  but 
wholly  the  contrary  ;  they  did  not  know  themselves  as  such, 
but  other  people  did.  It  was  simply  a  misunderstanding  as 
to  the  name.  I  have  in  mind  a  woman  of  great  influence, 
whose  sphere  circumscribes  many  important  individuals,  and 
whose  whole  life  is  encouraging  and  helpful ;  whose  whole 
burden  of  exhortation  to  each  and  all  is,  to  make  the  best 
of  it,  because  there  is  a  best  to  be  made  ;  to  try  over  and 
over,  because  it  is  always  worth  while  ;  and  why  worth  while, 
except  that  success  is  possible,  and  if  possible,  certain  to 
the  indomitable?  This  woman  has  been  a  Cadijah  to  more 


ALTRUISTIC    FAITH.  53 

than  one  individual  ;  has  hindered  suicide,  and  out  of  a 
perverse  profound  of  obliquity  in  one  life  brought  obedient 
order  and  uprightness  by  her  simple  conviction  that  it  ought 
to  be  so  ;  to  another  she  has  been  a  stimulus  to  faith  in  his 
own  genius  and  to  continued  effort,  simply  because  of  her 
faith  in  that  genius,  her  faith  in  the  capacity  for  that  effort  ; 
and  yet  the  tortures  of  the  Inquisition  would  not  wring  from 
this  woman  a  credo :  to  every  assertion  that  the  race  is  better 
living  than  dead  ;  that  it  is,  on  the  whole,  constantly  gaining 
toward  the  goal  ;  that  human  nature  progresses  rather  than 
retrogrades,  and  that,  after  all,  human  life  is,  in  a  general 
and  particular  sense,  worth  while — to  all  such  statements  she 
but  wistfully  shakes  her  head,  and  wishes  it  were  so.  She 
is  living,  and  may  die  under  the  impression  that  she  is  a 
pessimist.  Yet  this  woman  has  more  altruistic  faith,  in  the 
abstract  even,  than  almost  any  one  1  know.  In  short,  one 
who  has  that  faith  in  the  concrete  is  sure  to  have  it  in  the 
abstract  ;  and  the  effect  is  that  of  optimism  in  the  world. 
If  Byron  had  had  sufficient  altruistic  faith  in  some  one 
(and  that  one  not  a  beautiful  woman  !)  to  make  that  per 
son's  life  worth  living,  he  would  never  have  so  lost  all  con 
science  concerning  his  influence  as  to  have  written  : 

"  Count  o'er  the  joys  that  thou  hast  seen, 

Count  o'er  the  hours  from  anguish  free, 
And  know,  whatever  thou  hast  been, 
'Twere  something  better  not  to  be  1" 

The  surest  way  to  get  the  wider  altruism  is  to  exercise  the 
special  altruism.  Iso  one  whose  faitli  in  another  was  such 
as  to  determine  the  career  of  that  other  ever  halted  there  ; 
such  an  one  must  believe  in  the  race. 

And  this  brings  me  back  to  the  core  and  pith  of  my  mat- 


4  GEORGE    ELIOTS    POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

ter.  I  exhort  you  to  the  exercise  of  altruistic  faith  in  the 
concrete.  I  say  to  you,  Believe  in  somebody — somebody  in. 
particular.  An  abstract  altruism  is  good  ;  but  if  it  ripens 
not  into  the  concrete  there  is  something  wrong.  One  of 
my  friends  has  a  character  in  one  of  her  plays  who  "  does 
nothing  else  but  lie  awake  nights  and  rock  days,  thinkin* 
how  she  can  be  doing  good."  Her  altruism  is  too  abstract. 
That  one  who  says  truly  : 

"  I  live  for  those  who  love  me, 

For  those  who  know  me  true, 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me, 
And  the  good  that  I  can  do," 

never  fails  to  so  specialize  this  altruism  as  to  be  the  making 
of  more  than  one  individual  man.  Do  not  concern  yourself 
first  about  the  race  ;  do  not  expend  much  time  or  thought 
on  introspection  as  to  whether  you  believe  life  to  be  worth 
living.  I  venture  to  say  that  if  the  author  of  that  remark 
able  book,  "Is  Life  Worth  Living?"  had  occupied  him 
self  in  making  life  worth  living  to  one  or  more  of  his  fellow- 
men,  not  in  the  general  way  of  well-wishing  and  money - 
giving,  but  in  the  particular  way  of  discovering  to  some 
hopeless  man  the  special  aptitude  in  him,  the  painstaking 
way  of  recognizing  as  good  for  something,  and  good  for 
something  in  particular,  some  individual  or  individuals  who 
felt  themselves  good  for  nothing — I  venture  to  say  that  if 
he  had  so  occupied  himself — so  attitudinized  his  mind— he 
would  have  found  no  time  for  the  pessimistic  studies  and 
analyses  with  which  he  treats  the  momentous  question. 

For  the  question  is  momentous.  In  asking  it  we  ask 
every  other  question  which  concerns  the  race  or  the  indi 
vidual.  But  it  concerns  the  individual  first,  the  race  last. 


ALTRUISTIC    FAITH.  55 

It  may  well  affright — nay,  appall  us,  as  we  look  within 
our  lives  for  an  answer,  desperately  desiring  to  find  material 
for  an  affirmative.  Let  tbis  inward  look  be  very  brief,  but 
let  it  be  very  thorough.  Let  us  descend  into  the  depths  of 
all  that  inalienable  experience  which  has  gone  into  the  mak 
ing  of  our  lives.  God  pity  us  in  that  groping,  unless  here 
and  there  glimmers  a  taper  of  altruism  to  light  up  the  abyss 
of  selfishness  !  Out  of  the  blackness  of  this  darkness  we 
shall  emerge  to  objective  realities  forever  color-blind  to 
any  brightness  for  the  race,  or  for  self,  unless  we  can  bring 
up  hither  that  torch  of  faith  in  other  than  self. 

We  shall  find  life  so  worthless  that  we  would  not  care  for 
its  continuance  unless  we  have  made,  are  making,  or  shall 
make  somebody  else's  life  worth  living,  which  other  life,  ex 
cept  for  us,  had  not  been,  in  the  end,  so  worth  while. 

That  last  is,  after  all,  the  saving  clause — "  except  for 
us  f"  It  fortifies  us  against  disbelief  in  ourselves.  We 
must  each  feel  that  what  we  do  another  could  not  do  ;  else, 
after  all,  our  existence  is  not  necessary,  and,  in  the  last 
analysis,  who  cares  to  live  an  unnecessary  life — a  life  that 
could  be  dispensed  with — and  the  result  remain  the  same  ? 
No,  the  noble  soul  would  choose  rather  not  to  be  than 
not  to  be  somebody  in  particular.  Herein  consists  that  which 
BO  much  fascinates  and  so  much  misleads  in  the  dogmas  of 
Buddhism.  The  Eastern  mystic  realizes  that  man's  life,  as 
men  live  it,  being  filled  with  selfish  passion,  is  not  worth 
living — cannot  be  in  the  nature  of  things.  It  is  vam  to  try 
to  make  it  so.  The  individual  will  never  subordinate  sel 
fish  passion  to  altruistic  faith — passion  will  subtly  work  for 
self,  and  surely  undo  any  strivings  of  the  faith  for  others- 
it  is  time  wasted  to  attempt  to  make  tlioeyo  good  for  some- 


56          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

thing  ;  it  is  good  for  nothing,  good  only  to  lose  !  One  can- 
not  be — was  not  meant  to  be  (since  he  cannot  be) — any 
body  in  particular  ;  therefore  the  summum  bonum  is  to  lose 
the  one  in  the  all,  which  is  Nirvana.  He  does  not  even 
dwell  upon  the  possibility  of  a  nobler  alternative.  It  is  in 
conceivable  that  this  full-blooded  ego,  living  his  intense  in 
dividual  life,  can  ever,  save  as  the  dupe  of  demon  deceivers, 
who  pervert  perception  and  destroy  reflection,  have  a  con 
scious  thrill  of  exultation  in  his  individual  life,  because  he 
knows  that  there  has  good  come  to  the  race  which,  except 
for  his  individual  life,  would  not  have  come.  No,  no  ;  the 
only  best  is  to  lose  the  ego,  the  only  bliss  is  the  luxury  of  its 
nullification. 

The  Eastern  mystic  does  well  on  his  plane.  His  choice 
Is  noble  since  he  has  no  more  to  choose  from  ;  he  admits  no 
better  than  his  best.  But  his  plane  is  below  the  highest  ; 
he  dwells  upon  the  stair,  and  forever  just  misses  the  land 
ing  ! 

Many  more  than  the  Eastern  mystic  move  on  this  plane, 
dwell  on  this  stair,  and  rniss  the  landing.  But  our  West 
ern  Buddhist  cannot  be  so  joyous  in  his  pessimism,  because 
he  cannot  be  so  selfish.  He  belongs  to  the  breeze-impelled, 
forward-moving  race  of  the  restless,  pushing  genius,  the 
genius  which  admits  no  condition  good  enough  to  be  let 
alone.  This  Western  thinker  knows  that  the  intensest  in 
dividual  life  is  the  highest  duty  of  the  man  created  iii 
God's  image  ;  that  the  supremest  living  is  to  fully  bring 
out  that  image  of  the  Father  in  the  child,  in  the  farthest  de 
velopment  and  finest  finish  of  that  child,  separate  and  distinct 
from  all  other  individuals  of  the  human  family  ;  and  he 
feels  the  pain  of  this  responsibility,  which  no  one  can  lift 


ALTRUISTIC   FAITH.  57 

from  him — this  responsibility  of  the  development  and  finish 
of  this  ego ;  that  ego  whom  he  can  never  hide  from  final 
Omnipotent  scrutiny  and  sentence.  And  he  knows,  because 
of  his  fatal  certainty  here,  that  he  cannot  innocently  give 
the  Eastern  mystic  his  company.  He  knows  that  the 
Eastern  mystic's  highest  would  be  his  very  lowest.  He 
knows  his  life  can  be  worth  living,  that  therefore  he  can 
never  be  blameless  in  losing  it.  He  knows  that  whatever  it 
may  consciously  be  to  the  Brahmin,  to  him  it  must  con 
sciously  be  the  most  hideous  and  gigantic  selfishness  to  put 
all  things  behind  him,  except  the  extinction  of  self ;  to  sit 
cross-legged  under  a  palm-tree  extinguishing  the  ego — i.e., 
throwing  off  all  responsibilities  to  others,  in  order  to  attain 
the  eternal  irresponsibility. 

Xo  ;  we  of  the  "West  writhe  and  wince  under  the  truth  ; 
we  would  willingly  shirk  it,  but  we  cannot.  Each  of  us 
is  born  to  be  somebody  in  particular  to  himself  or  herself, 
and  to  others,  This  is  the  only  solution  of  our  being  at 
all ;  and  if  it  does  not  answer  the  question,  Is  life  worth 
living  ?  then  there  is  no  answer. 

Let  us  enlarge  and  ennoble  our  capacity  of  altruistic 
faith — the  capacity  to  be,  in  some  life  or  lives,  a  Cadijah. 
There  are  those  waiting  for  us  to  be  this  to  them — for 
us,  for  you,  for  me,  not  another.  There  are  those  waiting 
for  our  recognition  before  men  shall  recognize  them — nay, 
before  they  shall  recognize  themselves.  From  our  lips  their 
rightful  name  must  fall,  if  it  ever  be  heard. 

No  gift  can  pass  between  human  creatures  so  divine  as 
this  gift  of  recognition,  for  it  touches  upon  the  creative. 
There  is  a  sense  in  which  it  is  true  of  some  things  that 
vaying  so  makes  it  so !  There  are  capabilities  in  each  of 


58          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

ns  of  which  we  are  only  half  aware — capabilities  that  we 
never  dare  call  by  name,  of  which  we  need  another's  recog 
nition  before  we  fully  admit  their  existence. 

Of  the  most  noble  is  this  most  true.  Those  in  whom  ia 
most  to  recognize  have  most  need  of  recognition.  But  not 
one  lives  who  has  not  need  of  it.  It  may  be  your  high 
privilege  to  recognize  thus  some  artist,  poet,  painter.  It  may 
be  yours  to  call  such  an  one  by  his  own  true  name  before,  he 
can  pronpunce  it  for  himself  ;  to  pour  baptismal  oil  upon  him 
before  the  great  ones  have  sent  his  fame  forth  and  the 
spaniel  herd  that  lick  the  footsteps  of  the  leaders  have 
caught  it  up.  It  may  be  yours  to  be  Cadijah  to  a  Mahomet, 
Jane  Welch  to  a  Carlyie,  George  Henry  Lewes  to  a  Marian 
Evans.  If  so,  you  are  to  be  congratulated  ;  you  may  right 
fully  exult  and  say  to  the  applauding,  ratifying  world,  "  1 
told  you  so  !"  It  is  your  rneed,  your  merit,  your  enduring 
fame.  But  it  is  not  probable  that  to  you  and  me,  my 
friend,  this  lot,  this  meed,  this  merit,  this  enduring  fame 
will  fall.  Not  the  less  by  jot  or  tittle  are  you  and  I  to 
exercise  the  altruistic  faith,  and  to  exercise  it  concretely. 
The  Mahomets,  the  Carlyles,  the  George  Eliots,  need 
their  Cadijahs,  but  not  so  much,  I  would  say — if  com 
parison  could  be  admitted  here — as  do  the  people  with 
whom  we  come  in  contact  every  day,  in  common  ways  and 
common  places.  The  perceptions  of  a  Cadijah  are  not  more 
needed  to  detect  genius  than  to  detect  aptitude.  It  is 
mournful — nay,  more,  it  is  maddening — to  observe  how 
many  people  are  misplaced  in  the  highways  and  byways  of 
life.  Yet  surely  it  is  not  more  maddening  to  see  a  Charles 
Lamb  blundering  over  accounts  at  a  clerk's  desk  than  to 
see  Mr.  John  Smith,  who  should  be  there,  writing  essaya 


ALTRUISTIC   FAITH.  59 

in  an  attic.  It  is  as  truly  the  function  of  a  Cadijah  to  say, 
You  are  not,  as  to  say,  You  are. 

To-day  I  met  a  woman  who  has  discovered  an  aptitude 
for  exquisite  dress-making  in  a  drudging  shop-girl.  The 
shop-girl  has  been  simply  a  "  hand,"  and  this  clever  and 
good  woman  proposes  to  put  this  discovery  of  hers  behind 
a  brown-stone  front,  and  fling  out  for  her  her  true  name  in 
the  magic  Mile,  and  Modes,  which  transform  a  sempstress 
into  an  artist.  This  woman  does  precisely  the  thing  for  the 
shop-girl  which  Cadijah  did  for  Mahomet :  she  believes  in 
her  when  other  people  do  not.  It  is  as  legitimate  an  exer 
cise  of  concrete  altruistic  faith  to  elect  John  Smith  out 
of  the  essayist's  attic  into  the  counting-room  as  to  take 
Charles  Lamb  out  of  the  counting-room  to  Elia's  library. 

The  best  I  can  wish  my  readers  is  the  blessing  of  a  Cadi 
jah  in  their  lives.  Much  pitiful  need  and  much  painful 
want  must  mingle  its  bitter  with  the  sweet  6f  our  experi 
ence  before  the  full  tale  of  our  pilgrimage  be  told.  Some 
of  us,  out  of  the  weary  suffering  or  distracting  impotence  of 
invalidism,  will  desperately  crave  the  boon  of  health,  and 
deem  all  else  a  glad  exchange  for  it ;  some  of  us,  from  the 
cramping  limitations  of  poverty,  will  long  sadly  for  the 
wealth  that  stands  to  us  for  opportunity  and  development ; 
and  some  of  us,  with  health  and  wealth,  will  sicken  with 
the  loneliness  that  comes  for  the  loss  or  lack  of  love,  the 
passionate  heart-craving  which  would  gladly  barter  health 
and  wealth  in  exchange  for 

"...  the  touch  ot  a  vanished  hand 
And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still." 

Some  one  or  all  of  these  cravings  will  be  ours.    But  I  deem 


60         GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

it  true  that  deeper  than  the  craving  for  health,  or  wealth, 
or  love,  is  the  craving  for  recognition,  the  deep  desire  to  be 
known  for  what  we  truly  are  ;  to  hear  from  some  human  iips 
oi:r  rightful  name — poet,  preacher,  painter,  clerk,  dress 
maker — whatever,  by  testimony  of  the  conscious  power 
within  us,  we  feel  ourselves  most  fit  for  ;  to  hear  this 
name,  that  at  last  we  may  answer  to  it,  and  find  and  keep 
our  undisputed  place.  This  desire,  this  need,  is,  I  think, 
the  one  beyond  all  others.  If  you  miss  health,  miss  wealth, 
lose  or  lack  love,  may  you  not  miss  the  gift  from  another 
of  divining  faith  in  you  ;  this  faith  which  is,  as  is  all 
faith,  the  gift  of  God.  The  name  of  every  Cadijah  is  also 
Theodora. 


HISTORY. 


HISTORY. 
I. 

HISTORY  is  not  an  exact  science.  It  cannot  be  reduced  to 
formulas  and  equations  and  chronological  tables.  Yet  this  is 
the  notion  which  many  of  us  hold  concerning  it,  and  when 
we  have  learned  lists  of  events  and  names,  and  are  glib 
in  chronology,  we  feel  that  we  have  studied  history.  Yet 
we  have  not  studied  history  one  whit  more  than  the  child, 
who  has  mastered  the  multiplication  table,  has  studied 
music.  Mathematics  has  to  do  with  music,  but  mathe 
matics  is  not  music.  Chronicle  and  chronology  have  to 
do  with  history,  but  they  are  not  history.  "We  must  learn 
of  the  event  ;  it  is  indispensable,  but  it  is  not  the  whole. 
We  must  take  the  event  as  a  starting-point,  and  travel 
from  it  to  the  man  and  men  behind  it.  We  must  obtain 
its  accessories  of  time,  and  place,  and  circumstance  ;  we 
must  clothe  the  deed  with  the  thought  of  which  it  is  sim 
ply  the  skeleton  ;  we  must  invest  the  career  with  the 
character,  which  is  its  spiritual  body,  without  which  it 
has  no  significance — in  short,  we  must  make  of  history 
simply  what  it  is — a  drama  in  which  man,  in  multitudinous 
men,  is  the  actor,  whose  time  is  all  time,  whose  place  is  the 
past. 

The  past !  What  is  the  past  ?  Is  it  naught  to  us  but  a 
cemetery  wherein  lie  the  perished  men  and  women  of  the 


64:         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

centuries  behind  ?  Nay,  far  otherwise  is  the  truth.  There 
is  a  mediator  between  us  and  the  past  whose  one  hand  we 
must  hold  as  we  tread  these  silent  corridors  ;  that  common 
spirit  of  humanity,  living,  potential,  electric,  which  hovers 
amid  the  tablets  and  vitalizes  all  the  dust. 

It  is  this  truth  which  we  must  possess,  or,  rather,  of 
which  we  must  be  possessed,  when  we  approach  the  realm 
of  history.  We  must  be  saturated  with  a  sense  of  kinship. 
A  proper  embarkation  upon  the  sea  of  times  past  is  a 
veritable  voyage  of  discovery,  and  we  should  have  in  it  the 
feelings  which  a  fortune-hunter  has  who  turns  yellow  parch 
ments  in  search  of  proof  of  his  relationship  to  the  rich 
man  who  has  died.  For  the  past  is  simply  humanity  ;  it  is 
thou  and  I,  a  vast  congregation  of  thous  and  I's  :  forest 
succeeding  forest,  sprout,  sapling,  tree,  all  the  same  multi  • 
form  ego  over  and  over  to  the  end  of  time.  Herein  is  the 
significance  of  the  saying  that  history  repeats  itself.  It 
does  repeat  itself,  because  it  repeats  its  factors — the  men 
and  women  who  compose  it.  These  factors  are  everybody. 
Adam  stands  at  one  end  of  the  row,  you  and  I  at  the  other ; 
and,  as  in  the  children's  game,  we  must  "  all  take  hold  of 
hands."  The  spirit  of  a  common  humanity  stands  in  the 
centre  and  gently  re-unites  wherever  the  ring  is  broken. 
Woe  to  us  if  we  break  rank.  We  are  no  longer  in  the 
game. 

It  is,  therefore,  this  sympathy  with  the  past  which  can 
unlock  the  inner  halls  of  history  and  reveal  to  us  its  gran 
deur.  Destitute  of  this,  we  are  ever  outside.  We  can 
get  date,  and  name,  and  event,  but  we  can  never  get 
at  the  company  ;  these  things  are  but  the  furniture  of  the 
feast  j  by  them  we  make  no  acquaintance  with  the  guests. 


HISTORY.  65 

It  is  as  if  one  walked  in  the  forest  with  eyes  upon 
the  ground,  picking  up  the  fallen  leaves  of  last  year's 
summer.  Such  an  one  has  in  his  possession  but  the  her 
barium  of  the  past.  He  has  walked  in  the  forest  and 
picked  up  the  fallen  leaves  of  date,  and  event,  and  career, 
and  laid  them  away  in  the  pages  of  his  memory.  This 
is  the  chronicler,  and  this  is  much.  It  is  very  good  to 
have  a  herbarium.  Far  grander  is  it,  I  think,  to  walk  in 
the  forest  with  eyes  to  the  green  foliage  overhead,  cog 
nizant  of  the  life  which  animates  all ;  penetrated  with  its 
bounty  as  it  thrills  the  silences  and  winds  up  the  arteries  of 
the  huge  veterans  of  the  woods  ;  feeling  the  mould  be 
neath  trembling  with  the  common  life-blood.  This  is 
the  historian.  He,  too,  has  a  herbarium,  but  to  his  herba 
rium  he  carries  a  chemistry  which  restores  to  life  each 
fallen  leaf  and  hangs  it  in  its  proper  place,  juicy,  verdant 
with  perennial  resurrection.  He  who  has  but  the  events 
of  history  has  simply  apprehension — knowledge,  not  that 
sympathetic  comprehension  which  is  wisdom.  It  is  our 
privilege  and  our  duty  to  carry  this  sympathy  with  us  as  we 
chronicle  the  event,  and  by  its  chemistry  to  win  from  the 
barren  event  the  fruitful,  vital  idea  of  which  it  is  but  the 
chrysalis,  to  penetrate  the  integument  career,  and  in  its 
shining  folds  to  find  the  character — the  man.  Thus  do  we 
make  true  acquaintance  with  those  notable  personages  who 
shine  down  from  the  firmament  of  the  times  that  have  gone 
over  us,  as  luminous  nuclei  toward  which  all  eyes  are 
drawn,  raying  inimitably  their  piercing  light  to  the  succeed 
ing  generations.  Thus  do  we  enter  into  the  past  and  begin 
the  study  of  history.  Carlyle  says  :  "  Universal  history, 
the  history  of  what  man  has  accomplished  in  this  world,  is, 


66          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

at  bottom,  the  history  of  the  great  men  who  have  worked 
here.  They  were  the  leaders  of  men,  these  great  ones  ; 
the  modellers,  patterns,  and,  in  a  wide  sense,  creators  of 
whatsoever  the  general  mass  of  men  contrived  to  do  or 
attain  ;  all  things  that  we  see  standing  accomplished  in  the 
world  are  properly  the  outer  material  result,  the  practical 
realization  and  embodiment  of  thoughts  that  dwelt  in  the 
great  men  sent  into  the  world  ;  the  soul  of  the  world's  his 
tory,  it  may  justly  be  considered,  was  the  history  of 
these." 

Away,  then,  with  that  dwarfing  notion  of  history  which 
makes  it  mere  record  of  events,  and  give  its  place  to  this 
true  notion  which  makes  it  the  drama  of  humanity.  Let  us 
cease  to  look  in  its  pages  for  date  and  event  ;  let  us  com 
mence  to  look  therein  for  the  formative  ideas  of  the  ages, 
and  for  the  holders  of  these  ideas,  the  man  behind  the 
thought,  the  makers  of  history.  Let  us  study  career  as 
means  only  to  the  end — character.  Let  us  realize  that  his 
tory  is  the  shrine  of  humanity,  humanity  essential  in  its 
essence  in  past,  present,  future,  wherein  is  stored  the  ego — 
the  thou  and  the  I. 

We  have  now  lost  a  wrong  and  acquired  a  right  notion  of 
the  true  character  of  history — a  right  notion  which  raises  it 
to  the  level  of  psychology — a  discourse  concerning  the  soul 
of  man  ;  and  this  is  a  truth,  but  not  the  whole  truth.  An 
other  notion  must  be  added  which  shall  raise  it  to  the  alti 
tude  of  a  theology — a  discourse  concerning  God,  for  this  it 
surely  is. 

"  The  undevxrat  astronomer  is  mad." 

He  who  perceives,  as  did  Auguste  Comte,  that  "  the 
heavens  declare  no  other  glory  than  that  of  Hipparchus,  of 


HISTORY.  67 

Kepler,  of  Kewton,  and  of  all  those  who  aided  in  establish 
ing  their  laws  "--he  who  gazes  on  the  midnight  heavens, 
who  beholds  the  order  of  their  march  with  its  marvel  and 
its  mystery,  and  who  interprets  not  their  hieroglyph  upon 
the  scrolls  of  space  into  the  plain  handwriting  of  divinity 
— who,  in  the  music  of  the  spheres,  discerns  not  that  the 
theme  of  this  celestial  opera,  in  infinite  refrain,  is  God, 
GOD,  GOD  !  he,  indeed,  is  mad  ! 

Less  sane  is  he  who  reads  the  page  of  history,  yet  finds 
not  between  all  lines  the  same  great  word  ;  who,  seeing  on 
the  walls  of  all  human  institutions  the  flaming  out  of  mene 
here,  and  tekel  there,  yet  sees  not  the  writer  behind  these 
walls  ;  who  perceives  how  constant  and  instant  is  the 
conjunction  in  world-history  of  the  hour  and  the  man,  yet 
sees  not  the  unsleeping  Watcher,  who  at  the  hour  produces 
the  man  :  this  indeed  is  dulness  of  vision,  dimness  of  eye, 
hardness  of  heart  !  To  one  who  acknowledges  the  man 
Christ  to  be  the  one  top-flower  of  time,  the  perfect  bloom 
of  His  life  to  be  the  final  development  of  all  that  good 
toward  which  the  heart  of  man  in  all  ages  has  yearned — all 
history  is  sacred,  and  becomes,  as  it  did  to  St.  Augustine, 
but  the  history  of  the  city  of  God,  or  to  Jonathan  Edwards, 
a  "  history  of  redemption,"  and  all  the  past  is  but  a  pano 
rama  of  Providence.  Let  a  man  believe  in  God,  and  he 
will  find  Him  in  history.  I  do  not  say  he  will  find  Calvin 
ism  there,  as  did  Edwards,  or  any  other  isni.  That  ho 
must  first  import  into  it  before  he  can  export  it  from  it. 
To  the  agnostic,  doubtless,  history  is  but  one  long  "Wal- 
purgis  night  of  the  past,  from  beginning  to  end  ;  he  sees 
but  a  witch  dance  round  a  caldron  from  which  no  constant 
form  emerges,  but  ever  and  anon,  within  its  boil  and 


68         GEOEGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

bubble,  arises  to  evanescent  view  a  momentary  seeming5 
which  he  christens  destiny,  or  chance,  or  the  unknowable. 
But  let  the  believer  in  God,  the  Father,  gaze  herein,  and  he 
will  see,  as  in  the  laboratory  of  some  cliemi«t,  that  all  the 
past  is  but  the  crucible  of  God  ;  he  will  perceive  the  creat 
ure  God  has  made  in  successive  transmutations,  passed  and 
repassed  in  the  fires  of  the  ages  ;  and  he  will  discern  the 
divine  Alchemist  bending  over  His  creation  with  constant 
patience  and  with  perfect  plan.  Such  an  one  will  come 
away  from  the  pages  of  history  rhythmic  with  the  provi 
dence  of  God,  with  strengthened  faith  in  both  the  Planner 
and  the  plan  ;  he  will  see  how,  although 

"  The  old  order  changeth  and  yieldeth  place  to  new," 

yet 

"  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways." 

Those  who,  with  Longfellow, 

"...  Believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human," 

• 

will  find  everywhere  in  history  the  conjunction  of  the 
divine  with  this  human  ;  will  see  how 

"  In  even  savage  bosoms 

There  are  longings,  yearnings,  striving 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not ; 
That  the  feeble  hands  and  helpless. 
Groping  blindly  in  the  darkness, 
Clasp  God's  right  hand  in  that  darkness, 
And  are  lifted  up  and  strengthened." 


HISTORY.  69 


II. 

How  shall  we  study  history  ? 

In  order  to  so  study  history  that  we  shall  get  from  it  the 
most  that  can  be  gotten,  I  think  three  qualities  are  indis 
pensable  :  conscience  ;  imagination  ;  industry. 

Workmen  and  master  !  Industry  is  the  hand  which, 
with  unflagging  patience,  chips  from  those  conglomerates 
called  histories  the  petrified  fact.  Imagination  is  the  re 
creative  breath  which,  falling  close  and  ardent  upon  this 
fossil  fact,  restores  to  it  life,  and  gathers  back  from  out  the 
past  its  whole  environment  ;  and  conscience  is  the  righteous 
regulator  and  critic  of  the  work  of  both. 

Industry  is  essential.  He  who  would  penetrate  into  the 
complex  facts  of  history  in  order  that  he  may,  in  turn,  be 
penetrated  with  the  indivisible  and  universal  truth  of  his 
tory,  must  not  flinch  before  work.  Morning  by  morning 
must  he  go  forth  to  his  toil  ;  and  if  in  the  evening  he 
bring  home  little  spoil,  yet  must  he  not  complain.  Much 
of  his  day*  must  be  spent  in  the  rejection  of  the  spurious 
ores  which  fall  beneath  his  hammer,  for  not  until  he 
lias  laboriously  excavated  them,  holding  them  off  apart 
for  careful  scrutiny  and  comparison  with  the  real,  will  he 
detect  their  falsity.  Count,  for  instance,  if  you  can,  the 
counterfeit  Napoleon  Bonapartes  you  have  rung  upon  the 
counter  under  the  eye  of  conscience,  before  the  true  one, 
or  its  approximation,  could  be  passed.  Much  of  his  day 
must  be  spent  in  divesting  the  true  ore  of  alien  sub 
stances.  Tradition,  myth,  prejudice,  so  involve  themselves 
with  facts  in  history,  that  only  patientest  industry  can  set 


70         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

the  facts  clear.  What  an  accumulation  must  first  be 
stripped  away  from  the  story  of  Charlemagne,  for  in 
stance,  before  the  even  approximately  true  historic  figure 
can  be  seen  !  Yet  let  not  the  industrious  workman  dream 
that  his  time  so  spent  is  wasted.  It  is  his  apprenticeship, 
and  must  be  served.  Facts  of  history  must  be  gathered 
from  history  books,  and  from  historic  places,  from  every 
where,  for  the  psychologist  finds  everywhere  a  harvest  ; 
but  industry  alone  is  the  harvester.  Whether  Lord  Ma- 
caulay  had  genius  or  not  may  be  questioned ;  but  that  he 
had  a  thing  as  rare — industry — cannot  be  questioned.  No 
journey  was  so  long  or  difficult  but  he  would  take  it,  so  he 
might  the  better  satisfy  himself  concerning  a  fact  of  his 
tory.  He  must  go  to  the  spot  and  gather  testimony  there. 
Carlyle  never  made  his  "  French  Revolution,"  instinct 
with  genius  as  it  is,  except  by  stupendous  and  indefatigable 
industry.  He  was  fifteen  years  writing  his  "  Frederick 
the  Great."  Hallam's  "  Middle  Ages"  has  not  a  particle 
of  the  magnetism  of  genius  in  it,  but  will  nevertheless 
stand  to  all  time  as  a  pre-eminently  valuable  historical 
work.  Facts,  and  the  getting  of  them — "  hoc  opus,  hie 
labor  est  /" 

Next  comes  imagination.  Given  the  facts,  and  a  properly 
trained  imagination  can  evolve  from  them  the  truth.  But 
the  facts  must  be  given.  Imagination  can  do  much,  but 
she  must  have  something  to  do  with.  She  cannot  create. 

I  use  the  word  imagination  in  what  I  conceive  to  be  its 
literal  sense — image-making.  It  is  a  portrait  painter  by 
profession — nothing  less,  nothing  more.  And  it  paints 
fact-pictures  and  fancy-pictures.  The  first  is  its  sphere  in. 
history  ;  both  are  its  sphere  in  poetry. 


HISTORY.  71 

When,  as  in  Carlyle's  "  Cromwell,"  it  assembles  together 
upon  the  foreground  men  and  women  who  lived  in  the 
past,  objective  realities,  veritable  flesh  and  blood  humanity  ; 
when  it  puts  acts  and  facts  from  the  lives  of  these  upon  its 
canvas,  with  actor,  and  time,  and  place,  and  scene,  so  that 
we  see  the  past  as  present,  then  it  deals  with  the  facts  of 
history,  and  the  painter,  however  much  a  poet  he  may  be, 
lias  made  a  history.  "When,  as  in  "Paradise  Lost,"  with 
basis  of  fact  and  knowledge  it  makes  the  conceptions  of  the 
brain  objective  realities,  and  depicts  upon  its  canvas  a  man 
who  was  never  flesh  and  blood,  a  woman,  alas  !  never  flesh 
and  blood,  angels  and  devils,  Satan  and  God,  times,  places, 
scenes- — all  the  fabric  of  a  vision,  why,  then,  imagination 
deals  with  purely  mental  conceptions,  and  the  painter, 
however  much  a  historian,  has  made  poetry — or  verse. 

Now,  both  these  are  legitimate  uses  of  the  imagination, 
with  this  difference,  that  while  the  maker  of  poetry  may 
have  his  choice  of  material,  facts  to  which  he  may  add 
fancy  ad  libitum,  or  fancy  pur  et  simple,  the  historian 
must  confine  the  exercise  of  his  imagination  most  rigorously 
to  the  bare  facts  of  history.  And  here  he  has  need  of  his 
stern  task-master,  conscience.  Given  a  fact  in  history,  then 
let  imagination  take  this  fact  back  to  its  time  and  place, 
and  there  drape  it  with  circumstance,  and  condition,  and 
atmosphere — in  short,  let  it  fly,  with  this  captured  fact, 
back  all  the  years  that  lie  between  to  where  the  deed  was 
doing,  the  thought  thinking,  so  that  the  personage  whom 
thought  and  deed  preserve  can  be  confronted  in  living  pres 
ence  ;  a  faculty  this  which  treads  closest  of  all  upon  the 
God-like,  since  it  can  say  to  the  dead,  Live  again  ! 

This  faculty  is  given  us  for  use,  and  its  use  in  the  study 


72  GEOEGE    ELIOT'S    POETEY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

of  history  is  to  dramatize  the  past.  But  skill  in  its  use  is 
not  given  ;  that  must  be  gained.  It  is  something  to  be 
learned,  practised,  perfected.  It  is,  in  brief,  an  art. 

Industry  is  a  simple  thing.  It  is  simply  a  sticking  to,  a 
keeping  on.  There  is  no  art  about  that.  No  one  can 
plead  inability  here.  To  keep  on  doing  a  thing  you  must 
just  keep  on  doing  it.  That  is  industry.  Bat  how  prop 
erly  to  exercise  the  imagination  that  it  may  acquire  power 
to  give  you  all  the  aid  and  just  the  aid  you  need  in  the 
acquisition  of  history,  that  is  not  a  simple  thing.  And 
here  we  may  learn  from  the  masters. 

Macaulay,  with  indefatigable  industry,  gave  to  his  im 
agination  all  the  material  he  could  collect  from  books 
and  people  ;  and  when  his  mind  was  so  saturated  with 
the  facts  of  his  subject  that  he  could  no  longer  hold 
them,  he  went  to  the  place  where  the  hero  of  his  histo 
ries  lived,  or  where  the  deed  was  done,  and  there  gave 
himself  up  to  imagining  the  thing.  And  that  is  the  way 
he  made  his  masterpieces  historical  paintings.  What  one 
of  our  histories  teaches  us  so  much  truth  concerning  that 
remarkable  personage,  Julius  Caesar,  as  does  the  tragedy  of 
Shakespeare  ?  And  how  was  this  great  work  made  except 
by  this  same  saturation  of  imagination  ?  The  poet  Campbell 
says  of  this  :  "  He"  (the  author  of  "  Julius  Caesar  ")  "  cast 
his  eyes,  both  in  their  quiet  and  in  their  kindled  inspiration" 
(i.e.,  the  eye,  I  take  it,  of  industry  and  the  eye  of  imagina 
tion),  "  both  as  poet  and  as  philosopher,  upon  the  page  of 
classic  history  ;  he  discriminated  its  characters  with  the 
light  of  philosophy,  and  he  irradiated  truth,  without  en 
croaching  on  its  solid  shapes,  with  the  hues  of  fancy.  What 
is  Brutus  but  the  veritable  Brutus  of  Plutarch  .  .  .  un- 


HISTORY.  73 

altered  but  hallowed  to  the  imagination  ?  "What  else  is 
Portia  ?" 

Grace  Greenwood  writes  from  Belgium  :**...  An  old 
guide,  who  at  the  time  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  sev 
enteen  years  old,  told  us  that  he  first  conducted  Victor  Hugo 
over  the  field.  He  said  that  the  novelist  stayed  at  a  farm 
house  in  this  neighborhood  for  two  months,  and  walked 
again  and  again  over  the  ground  of  his  marvellously  vivid 
scenes.  That  is  the  way  an  artist  works  !" 

Yes,  we  say,  "the  way  an  artist  works."  The  way  a 
Macaulay  and  a  Hugo  work.  But  we  are  not  artists,  not 
Macaulays  and  Hugos,  and  we  cannot  work  their  way. 

Yet  here  I  think  we  make,  a  great  mistake.  We  do  a 
great  deal  of  shirking  in  this  life  on  the  ground  of  not 
being  geniuses.  The  truth  is,  there  is  an  immense  amount 
of  humbug  lurking  in  the  folds  of  these  specious  theories 
-about  genius.  The  exact  quantum  of  genius  in  the  world 
is  not  ascertained  any  more  than  its  exact  definition.  But 
let  a  man  or  a  woman  go  to  work  at  a  thing,  and  the  genius 
will  take  care  of  itself.  It  is  not  our  business  to  look  at 
the  masters  in  the  light  of  geniuses,  but  only  in  the  light  of 
workers.  It  is  their  duty  to  teach  us,  and  ours  to  learn, 
the  best  methods  of  work.  Though  we  may  never  write 
historical  drama,  or  never  paint  with  words  a  Waterloo,  we 
may  go  to  work  as  did  Macaulay  and  Hugo,  and  get  what 
history  we  do  get  as  they  got  theirs.  We  may,  with 
patient  and  unflagging  industry,  accumulate  our  facts  ;  we 
may  live  among  them  until  our  thought  is  saturated  with 
them,  and  then,  pushing  aside  other  things,  call  in  Imagina 
tion  and  let  her  dramatize  them  to  our  vision.  She  will 
stir  them  into  vivid  ^fe,  and  the  skeletons  of  the  past  will 


74:  GEOEGE    ELIOT*  S    POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

assume  face,  voice,  time,  and  place,  and  become  men  and 
women  in  the  present. 

"  Too  much  trouble  !"  do  we  say  ? 

Well,  it  is  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  I  own,  and  chacun  d 
son  gout.  I,  for  my  part,  would  rather  so  realize  one  total 
character  of  history — as  Queen  Elizabeth — setting  that 
mighty  personage  in  dramatic  action  upon  my  mind's  arena, 
by  means  of  patient  accumulation  of  the  facts  of  her  life, 
from  babyhood  to  queenhood,  studying  her  speeches,  her 
manners,  her  tastes,  her  costumes,  her  associates,  her 
favorites,  her  whole  environment,  until  from  the  com 
plete  career  the  unit  character  was  evolved,  than  to  have  all 
the  histories  of  the  realm  of  England,  in  complete  chrono 
logical  detail,  at  my  tongue's  end.  I  consider  that  far  more 
would  come  to  me  in  the  former  than  in  the  latter  case. 
An  acorn  in  the  mind  is  worth  more  than  an  oak  forest  at 
the  end  of  the  tongue.  Taine  says  :  "  Genuine  history  is 
brought  into  existence  only  when  the  historian  begins  to 
unravel  across  the  lapse  of  time  the  living  man,  toiling, 
impassioned,  intrenched  in  his  customs,  with  his  voice  and 
features,  his  gestures  and  his  dress,  distinct  and  complete 
as  he  from  whom  we  have  just  parted  in  the  street."  And 
again  :  "I  would  give  fifty  volumes  of  charters  and  a  hun 
dred  volumes  of  State  papers  for  the  memoirs  of  Cellini, 
the  Epistles  of  St.  Paul,  the  table-talk  of  Luther,  or  the 
comedies  of  Aristophanes." 

Industry  and  Imagination  !  Of  these  we  have  spoken, 
showing  feebly  how  indispensable  are  both  ;  how  easy  the 
use  of  the  former,  how  easy  the  misuse  of  the  latter  ;  how 
both  may  be  joined  so  that  they  shall  together  be  made  the 
engine  of  vast  results.  And  in  doing  so  we  have  left  easy 


HISTORY.  75 

of  inference  all  that  need  be  said  concerning  Conscience,  the 
vigorous  task-master  which  we  placed  over  the  two  work 
men. 

For  who  will  persevere  in  industry  unless  Conscience 
stands  by  with  uplifted  lash  ?  One  will  work  so  long  as 
enthusiasm  keeps  the  purpose  fresh,  the  motive  bright. 
But  when  results  are  meagre  and  disappointments  many— 
when  the  thing  you  hoped  to  hold  as  concrete  fact  glides 
off  at  last  into  a  glittering  generality,  that  most  dangerous 
fiction — when  the  half  truth  in  histories  is  so  much  mixed 
with  the  half  lie,  "  ever  the  worst  of  lies" — when  the 
authors  of  histories  so  differ  that  all  must  be  examined  to 
make  any  valuable — when  philology  is  so  loose  and  state 
ment  so  careless — when  event  is  so  far  in  the  past  that 
much  clutch  upon  it  seems  almost  hopeless,  why,  then, 
enthusiasm  wilts  away,  and  if  conscience  be  not  near  to 
keep  us  to  our  task,  we  will  not  be  kept. 

And  if  conscience  be  needful  to  keep  industry  up,  it  is 
still  more  so  to  keep  imagination  down.  At  this  we  have 
already  hinted.  It  is  a  difficult  thing  to  tell  a  story  just 
as  it  happened,  and  yet  make  the  story  good.  To  be 
dramatic  and  at  the  same  time  accurate  is  a  rare  combina 
tion.  If  the  one  is  gift,  the  other  is  grace. 

And  here  we  come  upon  a  great  rock  casting  a  portentous 
shadow.  I  know  of  but  one  besetment  so  easy  in  the  study 
of  history  as  that  of  credulity  ;  it  is  that  of  incredulity.  If 
the  one  be  Chary bdis,  the  other  is  Scylla.  Everywhere  aa 
we  read  we  repeat  the  question  we  used  to  put  so  anxiously 
to  the  story-teller  of  our  childhood,  "  Is  this  a  true  story  I" 
We  read  each  one's  account  in  order  to  try  to  find  the  fact, 
and  the  comment  on  all  things,  which  Dickens  makes  his 


76         GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  TOE-TRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

dying  miner  utter  to  tlie  woman  lie  loved  in  vain,  comes 
back,  "It's  aw'  a  muddle,  Rachel  !  It's  aw'  a  muddle  !" 
When  the  friends  of  Horace  Wai  pole  sought  to  entertain 
him  on  his  death-bed  by  offering  to  read  to  him  from 
histories,  he  would  reply,  "  Yes,  bring  me  my  liar  !" 
Incredulity  besets  us  everywhere  in  our  reading,  and  with 
it  comes  the  paralyzing  "  cui  'bono?"  And  it  is  a  chance 
if  our  conscience  be  sufficient  for  either  industry  or  imag 
ination  here. 

The  passage  is  indeed  narrow,  with  Charybdis  luring  on 
one  side,  and  Scylla  frowning  on  the  other  ;  yet  there  is  a 
way  out.  Our  psychology  must  save  us  here.  The  ego 
must  steer  us  through.  Do  I  wish  to  make  acquaintance 
with  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  the  "  man  of  destiny,"  I  must 
accept  first  the  acquaintanceship  of  all  who  have  written  of 
him,  from  a  Thiers  to  a  Madame  de  Ilemusat.  Each  will 
have  a  man  of  his  own,  made  up  of  Bonaparte  and  ego. 
Bonaparte  and  Thiers  make  Thiers'  ;  Bonaparte  and  de 
Remusat  make  de  liemusat's.  I  must  make  mine  of  Bona 
parte — i.e.,  all  their  Bonapartes — and  myself.  It  will  take 
a  long  time  ;  after  all  the  ingredients  are  thrown  into  the 
caldron,  from  "poisoned  toad"  to  "Tartar's  lip,"  there 
must  be  a  deal  of  stirring  and  fire -poking  before  the  image 
will  emerge  ;  but  finally  come  it  will,  my  Bonaparte,  my 
veritable  little  corporal,  and  in  him  I  will  believe,  though  an 
archbishop  in  sacerdotal  robes  tells  me  there  never  lived  a 
Bonaparte.  Nowhere  more  than  in  the  study  of  history  is  it 
needful  to  "put  yourself  in  his  place" — i.e.,  to  carry  to  the 
making  of  an  image  of  the  person  whose  form  you  seek  to 
confront,  those  general  and  common  ingredients  which  go 
to  make  up  each  man.  When  you  have  carried  to  him  that 


HISTORY.  77 

much  of  yourself  which  is  common  to  you  both,  you  will, 
by  this,  be  qualified  to  detect  that  in  him  which  is  himself 
strictly,  and  not  yourself  ;  and  so  to  a  man  you  will  add  the 
individuality  of  this  man,  and  have  what  you  seek.  Carlyle 
carried  Carlyle  to  the  making  of  his  Cromwell,  doubtless  ; 
and  in  this  way  he  got  for  himseit  a  complete  Cromwell — 
wart  and  all — to  his  mind.  Taine  thinks  Cromwell's  Crom 
well  is  Carlyle's  Cromwell,  and  largely  because  they  are,  in 
his  view,  interchangeable  words.  Nowhere  more  than  in 
history  does  it  "  take  a  thief  to  catch  a  thief." 


111. 

Why  shall  we  study  history  ?  For  so  laborious  and 
perilous  a  process  as  that  I  have  depicted,  there  must  be 
much  motive  and  imperative  motive. 

I  would  have  the  study  of  history  not  an  end,  but  a  means 
'to  an  end.  I  would  study  history,  nrs .,  in  order  to  know 
myself. 

"  The  proper  study  of  mankind  is  man."  Know  thyself 
is  the  first  mandate  of  a  sound  and  comprehensive  philoso 
phy.  Yet  true  self-knowledge  is  never  to  be  come  at  by 
burrowing  in  the  narrow  limit  of  our  own  individual 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  experience.  We  must,  in  order  to 
truly  see  ourselves,  stand  before  the  great  mirror  humanity, 
and  in  its  all-reflecting  focus  behold  our  own  proper  individ 
uality.  Taine  says  "  all  history  is  but  the  history  of  the 
heart."  We  find  ourselves  surrounded  by  humanity,  we 
find  ourselves  humanity,  and  of  humanity  we  know  less 


78         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

than  of  anything  else.  We  have  studied  history  wrongly, 
and  it  has  yielded  us  only  date  and  event,  deed  and  career. 
Let  us  study  it  rightly,  and  it  will  yield  us  true  self-knowl 
edge,  true  sympathy  with  others.  Here,  as  elsewhere,  it  ia 
"  the  spirit  that  quickeneth."  Goethe  said,  "It  is  the 
spirit  in  which  we  act  which  is  the  great  thing."  It  is  the 
spirit  in  which  we  study  which  is  the  great  thing.  Does 
history  hold  a  hero  for  us  ?  Let  us  love  him  boundlessly 
but  wisely  ;  if  we  praise  him,  let  our  praise  be  abundant 
but  understanding,  as  was  Heine's,  when  he  says,  in  explana 
tion  of  seeming  to  praise  Bonaparte  in  praising  his  deeds, 
"  I  never  praise  the  dead,  but  the  human  soul  whose  gar 
ment  the  deed  is,  and  history  is  nothing  but  the  soul's  old 
wardrobe."  1  would  study  history  that  I  may  be  wise — wise 
with  a  sympathetic  wisdom  born  of  much  and  reverent  con 
tact  with  my  brother  and  sister  humanity.  . 

"  Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  we  linger  on  the  shore  ; 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and  more." 

1  would  study  history  rightly  that  my  knowledge  may  be 
fused  with  wisdom.  I  would  stand  among  the  men  and 
women  of  the  past  in  order  that  1  may  stand  among  the 
men  and  women  of  the  present — an  individual  ;  not  caught, 
and  absorbed,  and  lost  in  the  great  world-current,  for  "  wis 
dom  lingers  !" 

And,  in  the  second  place,  I  would  study  history  in  order 
to  make  my  standing  firmer  in  religious  faith.  In  these 
days  of  ebb  and  quicksand,  when  agnosticism  rears  its  stone 
wall  in  front  of  faith,  and  writes  upon  it  in  black  letters  the 
end-all  and  the  be-all  of  all  knowing,  the  unknowable,  we 
have  need  to  go  where  God  is  to  confirm  our  faith  in  Him 


HISTORY.  79 

And  God  is  in  history  ;  He  is  there  because  the  human  soul 
is  there.  "  Take  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet,  for  this  is 
holy  ground."  Turn  the  pages  reverently,  for,  as  Carlyle 
says,  "  all  history  is  the  Bible." 

These  two  reasons  why  I  would  study  history  come  first 
in  rank.  After  these  come  all  other  benefits  which  the 
intellect  gets  to  itself  in  any  exercise  of  its  faculties  ;  in  no 
other  pursuit  can  these  be  greater.  The  exploration  of  no 
science  can  be,  in  all  ways,  so  profitable  as  must  be  the 
science  of  humanity. 

The  science  of  matter  is  a,  very  noble  pursuit.  To  wrench 
from  the  ores  of  the  earth,  the  treasures  of  the  sea,  the 
elements  of  the  air,  the  secret  of  their  functions  and  their 
affinities,  the  laws  of  their  being,  the  springs  of  their  action 
— this  is  very  noble  and  very  good.  But  it  ends  where  it 
begins — in  matter  ;  and  matter  is  matter  and  not  man,  de 
spite  the  Darwins,  and  Tyndalls,  and  Huxleys  ;  and  one 
may  know  all  that  is  to  be  known  about  matter  and  noth 
ing  that  need  be  known  about  man. 

The  science  of  astronomy  is  very  grand.  To  make 
acquaintance  with  the  steadfast  stars,  to  know  their  times 
and  seasons,  tlieir  coinings  and  their  goings — to  learn  their 
hidden  looks  by  distance-killing  telescopes,  so  that  each 
feature  is  familiar,  must  make  one  feel  a  sense  of  more  than 
mundane  importance,  and  a  sense  of  fellowship  more  than 
i  mortal.  Yet,  after  all,  if  an  astronomer  do  nothing  but 
gaze  at  the  stars,  he  is  only  a  star-gazer.  But  the  science  of 
humanity — what  limit  is  there  here  ?  Hero  is  a  labyrinth 
for  learning,  an  ocean  for  genius,  a  cathedral  for  worship  ! 

The  most  transcendent  genius  should  occupy  itself  with 
history.  It  does  indeed,  in  a  sense,  for  the  loftiest  reaches 


80          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

of  the  loftiest  minds  have  always  been  in  the  study  of  man ; 
but  I  would  have  the  abstract  psychology  of  these  great 
ones  made  concrete.  1  would  that  Goethe's  Faust  had  been 
a  more  solid  figure  in  history — i.e.,  I  would  that  all  the 
genius,  and  soul- exploration,  and  experience,  with  all  the 
transcendent  learning  that  went  to  its  making,  might  have 
turned  into  some  historic  evolution — that  of  Charlemagne, 
for  instance.  What  a  history  would  that  have  been  ! 

Is  there  not  a  yearning  in  these  dumb,  eloquent  faces 
which  confront  us  from  the  pages  of  history  to  give  us  the 
lesson  they  learned  here,  which  shall  move  us  to  accept  their 
teaching  ?  Teaching  concerning  our  relations  with  each 
other  in  this  present,  where  we  must  briefly  play  our  part, 
nobly  or  ignobly  ;  teaching  that  shall  train  us  for  that  long 
hereafter,  within  whose  dim  recesses  even  now  is  set  a  wait 
ing  messenger,  biding  his  time  to  beckon,  and  whose  beckon 
ing  we  must  one  day  surely  follow  into  those  same  silent 
corridors  of  the  past.  Do  not  these,  the  departed  great 
ones,  speaking  all  the  more  eloquently  because  the  clogging 
web  of  irrelevant  detail  has  dropped  away  and  left  bare  and 
prominent  to  our  vision  only  the  vital  and  important — do 
not  these  teach  us  something  that  we  need  to  learn  ? 

There  is  a  science  which,  whether  in  little  or  in  much, 
pursued  by  patient  industry,  by  educated  imagination,  by 
rigorous  conscience,  shall  teach  us,  of  all  things  that  it  con 
cerns  us  to  know — history — the  true  and  proper  study  of 
humanity  ! 

Speaking  of  soul-exploration  and  experience,  an  old  sus 
picion  of  mine  is  revived — to  wit,  that  history  has  not  been 
defrauded  of  Goethe's  genius  in  soul-exploration  or  exploita 
tion  alone.  A  great  deal  of  diligence  in  this  calling  in 


HISTORY.  81 

better  people  has  been  worse  than  wasted.  An  especially 
refined  exploitation  of  soul  is  the  especially  refined  avoca 
tion  of  an  especially  refined  class  of  ladies.  1  may  not  be 
entirely  clear  here,  but  there  are  some  subjects  on  which,  if 
not  entirely  clear,  one  is  yet  clear  enough. 

If  a  fraction  of  the  energy  devoted  to  the  avocation  at 
which  I  have  hinted  could  be  diverted  from  this  feverish, 
narrow,  unimportant  channel  of  personal  history  into  the 
fresh,  broad,  all-important  paths  of  universal  history,  what 
luminous  pages  would  be  added  to  its  archives  !  What  a 
clearing  up  of  mysteries  would  take  place  !  The  "  Iron 
Mask"  would  stand  a  poor  chance  for  preservation  of  its  im 
penetrability  under  the  mortar  of  those  feminine  fingers,  did 
those  potent  little  manipulators  feel  a  fraction  of  the  same 
itch  to  unmask  the  mysterious  man  within  which  goes 
constantly  toward  unmasking  the  mysterious  man  or  woman 
of  society.  The  secret  of  Kaspar  Hauser's  antecedents 
would  stand  out  distinctly  if  a  small  part  of  the  industry 
which  determines  the  pedigree  of  the  new  social  lion  were 
applied  to  it.  And — ah  me  !  — if  an  infinitesimal  atom  of 
the  epistolary  zeal  and  zest  which  goes  into  the  bottomless 
abyss  of  research  which  the  letters  between  A.  and  B., 
written  for  the  purpose  of  mutually  evolving  each  other 
from  each  other's  true  inwardness,  went  into  the  research, 
how  beyond  question  would  the  authorship  of  the  Letters  of 
Junius  be  established  ! 

Plenty  of  people  do  not  read  history,  do  not  love  history  ; 
and  yet  they  do  nothing  else  but  read  history  because  they 
love  it  so.  For  it  is  true,  as  Taine  says,  that  all  history  is 
the  history  of  the  human  heart.  And  into  this  human  heart 
we  are  ever  peering,  grasping  at  every  new  heart-history 


82         GEOEGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

with  as  much  interest  as  if  it  were  the  only  heart-history  ; 
peering  an^  prying,  and  never  being  tired  of  turning  the 
pages  ;  returning  to  the  study  of  this  unsolved  mystery  of 
the  human  heart  with  a  fascination  before  which  the  fasci 
nation  of  the  mystery  of  unpierced  matter,  the  mystery 
of  unvisited  star,  pales.  People  the  world  over  occupy 
themselves  with  people  ;  if  not  in  a  wide,  important 
way,  in  a  small,  unimportant  way.  Our  fingers  itch  to 
vivisect  each  other.  If  some  of  us  consecrated  a  tithe  of 
that  fine  mental  manipulation  and  dextrous  research  and 
magnetic  sympathy  and  sympathetic  magnetism  expended 
in  these  mutual  vivisections  upon  grand  historic  evolu 
tions,  womanhood,  not  to  say  manhood,  would  sweep  out 
on  a  broader  and  a  higher  plane  ;  life  would  become  more 
spiritual,  and  certain  dreams  of  certain  dreamers  would 
come  true. 

For  visions  are  not  exclusively  the  property  of  vision 
aries.  Plato  pleased  himself  with  a  vision  of  his  ideal 
republic  ;  Augustus  with  a  vision  of  his  city  of  God  ; 
Milton  saw  in  his  mind  a  "  noble  and  puissant  nation  rous 
ing  herself  like  a  strong  man  after  sleep  and  shaking  her 
invincible  locks  ;"  and  these  things  are  all  nearer  to-day 
than  in  the  days  of  those  who  beheld  them  in  a  vision. 

And  who  shall  forbid  us  women  also  a  vision  of  a 
future,  fair  if  far — and  who  shall  say  how  far  ? — of  a  time 
to  come,  coming,  when  we  shall  no  longer  cramp  our 
selves  to  the  petty  and  the  personal,  but  shall  expand  into 
the  large  and  the  impersonal  ;  when  we  shall  exchange 
a  morbid  scrutiny  of  a  man,  or  a  woman,  so  often  piti 
fully  specific,  for  a  fruitful  contemplation,  grandly  generic, 
of  man  ? 


HISTORY.  83 

•'  Men  our  brothers,  men  the  workers, 

Ever  reaping  something  new  ; 
That  which  they  have  done  bat  earnest 
Of  the  things  that  they  shall  do. ' ' 

When  that  capacious  curiosity  which  is  our  birthright 
shall  not  be  satisfied  with  the  petty  pottage  of  small  person-  . 
alities,  but  shall  range  through  all  the  ages  of  the  past,  get 
ting  to  itself  nourishment  in  that  wide  pasture  of  true  his 
tory,  where  separate  men  and  women  are  stationed  all  along 
the  line,  turning  to  us  eloquent  faces — all  the  more  eloquent 
because  the  clogging  web.  of  irrelevant  detail  has  dropped 
away  and  left  bare  and  prominent  only  the  vital  and  impor 
tant  ! — men  and  women  whose  histories  are  significant  of 
Providence,  whose  environment  is  that  of  the  times  gone 
over  us,  whose  careers  stand  for  characters,  whose  charac 
ters  stand  for  ideas,  whose  ideas  stand  for  causes — causes 
that,  being  no  longer  personal  or  individual,  no  longer 
bounded  by  time  or  place  or  circumstance,  stand  for  God  ! 

Such  a  dream  I  have — and  it  will  come  true.  Let  us 
believe  it ;  faith  is  the  first  step  toward  freedom.  My  ideal 
study  of  history,  my  ideal  historical  society — of  which  we 
shall  a'll  be  members — is  a  Coming  Event. 


OLD  ROME  AND  KEW  FRANCE. 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE. 

I. 

TIIE-RE  is  a  notion  of  the  Middle  Ages  which  is  common 
and  which  is  false — a  notion  which  looks  upon  them  as  ten 
centuries  of  starless  midnight,  wherein  the  world  lay  asleep 
• — as  good  as  dead.  A  tunnel  of  time,  one  thousand  years 
long,  through  which  humanity  rumbled  blindly  in  an  emi 
grant  train,  the  last  sky-rockets  of  the  Roman  Empire  flar 
ing  up  at  one  end,  the  first  sunbeams  of  the  Renaissance 
shining  in  at  the  other — and  no  light  between — the  no- 
account  period  of  history. 

We  are  all  liable  to  have  notions  until  we  get  knowledge  ; 
but  if  any  of  us  hold  this  one,  it  should  be  corrected  before 
we  enter  upon  mediaeval  studies.  It  seems  to  me  that 
this  period  is  not  suggestively  named  when  called  the 
Middle  Ages,  nor  accurately  named  when  called  the  Dark 
Ages,  but  that  both  suggestion  and  accuracy  combine  in 
that  view  which  denominates  it  as  a  Twilight  Age.  That 
period  which  elapses  before  sunrise,  that  period  which 
elapses  after  sunset,  and  all  that  interval  between  when 
moon  and  star  ray  forth  their  multitudinous  lances  of  silver 
light,  waging  successful  warfare  with  the  cannonade  of 
serried  cloud — these  periods  we  find  indeed  dim,  but  not 
wholly  unlit  ;  obscure,  but  not  impenetrable.  Such  a 
night  as  this  is  that  of  the  Middle  Ages. 


88         GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

The  importance  of  acquaintance  with  this  period  is,  by 
the  ordinary  student,  greatly  underestimated.  Yet  it  is 
emphatically  the  seed-time  of  all  that  succeeds.  The  skilful 
florist,  if  he  wishes  to  insure  the  germination  of  precious 
seed,  casts  it  into  pots  of  prepared  earth,  then  sets  these 
pots  away  in  the  brooding  darkness  of  his  hothouse,  and 
there  keeps  them  until  the  delicate  sprout  above  the  earth 
assures  him  that  germination  is  well  under  way.  Growth 
takes  place  in  the  night.  He  who  would  approach  history 
in  the  true  attitude  of  a  scientist,  a  psychologist,  a  student 
of  Providence,  must  concern  himself  with  its  seed  time,  its 
time  of  sprouting  and  of  early  growth.  As  much  as  is  the 
importance  of  study  of  this  period  underestimated,  so 
greatly  is  its  interest  unappreciated.  He  who,  with  some 
true  conception  of  what  the  mediaeval  period  is  to  after- 
times,  shall  but  cross  the  threshold  of  its  study,  will,  once 
within,  proceed  along  those  dim-lit  aisles  with  an  interest  as 
much  exceeding  that  of  more  brilliant  subsequent  ages  as 
does  the  fascination  of  the  mysterious,  pregnant,  prodigy- 
filled  night  exceed  that  of  the  glaring  day  !  Let  us,  then, 
cross  this  threshold. 

By  one  bold  exercise  of  your  imagination  place  yourself 
with  me  within  the  vestibule  of  mediaeval  time.  Above 
the  lintel  of  the  door  we  enter  is  written  in  blood-red 
letters  the  date — 476.  This  vestibule  is  long — three  cen 
turies  lie  between  its  doorway  and  the  massive  portal  of  the 
temple  proper  yonder,  on  which  flames  forth,  in  letters  oi 
gilt,  the  date  800. 

Here  in  this  antechamber  the  twilight  deepens  ;  a  side 
light  radiates  fitfully  here  and  there,  but  our  way  is  mainly 
featured  to  us  by  the  rays  that  issue,  the  one  from  a  red 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE. 


89 


sunset  behind,  the  other  from  a  rising  moon  in  front — the 
ensanguined  light  that  lingers  in  the  wake  of  Koine  that 
was,  the  ruddy  gold  that  parts  the  clouds  where  France 
shall  be.  In  the  fifth  century  of  modern  time  the  Roman 
Empire  had  grown  cancerous  upon  the  world.  The  iron  of 
its  blood — its  Julius,  its  Trajan,  its  Aurelius— had  run 
out.  The  virus  of  a  Nero,  a  Domitian,  a  Caligula  had 
mingled  with  the  watery  serum  of  a  Heliogabalus  and  an 
Augustulus,  and  had  brought  mortal  sickness.  There  was 
need  of  surgery.  Then  nature,  that  great  nature  which,  in 
history  as  elsewhere,  is  Providence,  arose,  and  with  the 
sword  of  Hun  and  Goth  cut  out  this  cancer  which  was 
poisoning  the  race.  With  the  contented  retirement  to  his 
Lucullan  villa  of  the  little,  bribed  Augustus — Romulus 
Augustulus,  too  small  to  light  and  not  too  big  to  buy — the 
last  effigy  of  Caesar  flitted  from  the  stage  of  history,  and 
Rome,  the  monopolist,  the  tyrant,  the  disease,  vanished 
from  the  body  politic. 

[Surely,  I  need  not  interject  a  word  of  tribute  to  that  glo 
rious  Rome  which  still  lives  with  transmigrated  life,  that 
other  Rome,  that  unparalleled  product  into  which  all  the 
ages  of  the  world  had  entered  as  contributors,  in  that  fashion 
which  the  ages  have.  For  human  history  is  nothing  but 
one  ceaseless  flow  of  cause  into  effect,  and  of  effect  into 
cause.  There  is  nothing  but  which  is  consequent.  You 
and  I  are  but  the  consequents  of  a  vast  tangle  of  antecedents 
in  all  time  before.  And  but  for  Rome,  that  stupendous 
concrete  of  wealth  and  culture  and  intellect  of  eighteen 
centuries  ago,  it  had  not  been  the  same  with  you  and  me 
to-day.  This  Rome,  vastly  differing  from  that  othe  Rome 
that  was  extinguished,  died  only  with  such  death  as  good 


90          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

things  have — a  death  which  is  transition — and  in  dying 
bequeathed  her  rich  arterial  blood  to  all  the  ages.] 

One  glance,  then,  at  this  flickering  sunset  sky  of  Rome 
(its  embers  will  h'ght  many  a  watch-fire  of  the  future), 
and  we  must  face  about  and  thread  oar  way  as  best  we  can 
along  this  dim  vestibule  of  the  Twilight  Age,  by  such 
radiance  as  glimmers  from  a  moon  struggling  through 
eumulous  clouds  before  us. 

In  its  focus  stands  a  figure,  the  figure  in  political  history 
of  the  next  three  centuries,  upon  which  we  must  fasten  our 
attention — the  figure  of  Clovis,  initial  name  of  French 
Empire.  Ten  years  after  the  so-called  extinction  of  the 
"Western  Empire  of  the  Romans  in  the  deliverance  up  of 
his  little,  brief  authority  by  the  puny  Augustulus  to 
Odoacer,  there  ruled  over  the  Roman  territory  of  Gaul, 
with  the  title,  some  say,  of  the  King  of  the  Romans,  a 
Roman  patrician,  Syagrius.  This  fact  alone  discovers  to  us 
how  life  lingered  in  the  moribund  members  of  the  ruined 
empire.  With  less  start  than,  it  would  seem,  Syagrius 
had,  many  a  man  had  beforetime  usurped  the  empire  and 
ruled  the  world.  We  may  say  that  the  time  for  all  such 
usurpations  of  Roman  Empire  was  now  gone  by.  But  we 
can  maintain  this  position  only  after  the  event.  It  took 
but  the  returning  figure  of  Napoleon  upon  the  shore  of 
France,  after  his  banishment,  to  rally  round  him  his  army 
and  restore  to  him  his  empire,  dislodging  from  the  throne 
of  France  that  ancient  dynasty  which,  in  the  emperor's  brief 
absence,  had  been  reseated  there.  Some  one  has  said  that 
such  was  the  magic  of  Napoleon's  name,  that  it  needed  but 
the  sight  of  his  cocked  hat,  erected  on  the  soil  of  France, 
to  strike  terror  to  the  heart  of  Europe.  In  this  closing  fifth 


OLD    ROME    AX  I)    NEW    FKANCE. 


91 


century  the  "Roman  eagles  had  not  wholly  lost  their  power 
to  stir  up  Roman  souls  ;  witness  the  Senator  Boethius,  his 
father-in-law,  Symrnachns,  and  their  colleagues,  found 
guilty,  after  that  date,  of  loyalty  to  that  ancient  standard. 
Nor  was  the  subjugation  and  unity  of  the  barbarian 
Odoacer's  kingdom  so  assured  as  to  leave  no  room  for  a 
reasonable  hope  in  one  who  should  aspire  to  restore  the 
Roman  Empire  1o  the  Romans,  of  allies  from  barbarian 
tribes.  Syagrius,  the  son  of  a  Roman  hero,  would  seem  to 
have  been  such  an  one.  He  was  exceedingly  popular  among 
his  countrymen  in  the  Gallic  territory  over  which  he  ruled  ; 
nor  was  he  less  so  amon^  barbarian  allies,  whom,  by  his 
superiority,  he  both  awed  and  attracted.  He  represented 
to  the  rude  nations  about  him  what  was  awful,  and  admir 
able,  and  wholly  beyond  their  reach  in  the  traditions  and 
manners  of  that  Rome  which,  by  numbers  only,  they  had 
conquered.  Here,  we  might  say,  was  opportunity  for  a 
most  successful  coup  d'etat  by  this  illustrious,  powerful, 
and  accomplished  Roman.  We  can  give  no  conclusive 
reason  why  it  could  not  have  happened  except  that  it  did 
not.  We  can  only  be  wise  after  the  event.  The  panorama 
of  history  unrolls  itself  always  to  surprised  spectators. 
Always  "  it  is  the  unexpected  that  happens."  Not  Syagrius, 
in  this  fifth  century  of  time,  but  a  roving,  barbarian  chief 
tain,  is  the  coming  man. 

Clovis — our  modern  for  Chodowig,  mighty  warrior — was 
the  son  of  Childeric,  king  of  that  branch  of  the  Frankish 
l>;u-l>arians  whose  aettlements  lay  along  the  river  Sala,  or 
Yssel,  hence  their  distinctive  appellation,  Salian  Franks. 
The  Franks  had  figured  in  history  for  several  centuries. 
They  were  no  strangers  to  the  Roman  world.  From  the 


92          GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

beginning,  when  the  hero-god  of  Germany,  Arminius,  heat 
back  the  Roman  legions  under  Varus,  this  valorous  race 
had,  by  one  or  another  of  its  tribes,  won  the  respect  and 
sometimes  fear  of  the  Romans,  in  the  varying  character  of 
enemies,  allies,  or  subjects.  The  eminent  qualities  of  this 
race  were  courage  and  independence.  It  was  from  their 
inconquerable  passion  for  freedom  that  they  won  their  name 
— Franks,  freemen.  Even  in  their  relation  to  their  chief 
they  were  rather  allies  than  subjects.* 

Childeric,  the  father  of  Clovis,  was  a  wild  and  wilful 
man,  whose  youthful  madnesses  out-Franked  the  Franks, 
and  provoked  them,  with  characteristic  democracy,  to 
ignore  his  kingship  and  banish  him  to  the  court  of  a  neigh 
boring  king,  where,  in  good  care,  he  might  find  space 
for  repentance.  It  does  not  appear  that  he  occupied  him 
self  exclusively  with  this  wholesome  but  bitter  spiritual 
exercise.  Childeric  seems  to  have  anticipated  the  later 
French  character,  whose  law  of  life  lay  in  the  phrase  of  the 
Bourbon  courtiers,  "Je  m'amuse!^  He  had  the  national 
instinct,  " pour  passer  le  temps,"  and  in  this  experience 
passed  the  time  principally  in  making  love  to  Bosnia,  the 
wife  of  the  open-hearted  King  of  Thuringia.  She,  for  her 
part,  found  no  difficulty  in  falling  duly  "  in  love"  with  this 
fascinating  French  exile,  and  when  the  Franks  recalled 


*  The  famous  story  of  the  vase  of  Soissons  illustrates  the  independent 
attitude  they  maintained  as  soldiers  to  their  general  and  as  subjects 
to  their  king.  After  the  first  victory  of  Clovis,  a  rare  and  exquisite  vase 
•was  among  the  spoils.  This  Clovis  set  aside  for  himself.  But  a  sol: 
dier  seeing  him  do  this  stepped  forth  from  the  ranks,  and,  exclaiming, 
'"  You  shall  have  nothing  but  what  comes  to  you  by  lot, "  struck  the 
vase  and  shivered  it  to  atoms. 


OLD  HOME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  93 

their  monarch  to  his  place,  Bosnia  incontinently  left  Tliu- 
ringian  bed  and  board,  declaring,  with  an  emancipation  of 
soul  which  it  takes  the  nineteenth  century  to  equal,  that 
"had  she  found  a  man  more  beautiful  than  Childeric,  he 
should  have  been  her  choice  !" 

The  saying  that  "  the  mother  makes  the  man"  seems  to 
find  illustration  in  the  character  of  Clovis.  Bosnia  was  the 
regulation  mother  for  a  conqueror,  and  she  bequeathed  him 
the  quality  which  he  needed  as  equipment  for  his  bloody  and 
unscrupulous  career — unswerving  selfishness,  which  allows 
no  foolish  conscience  to  impede  the  course  of  its  passion,  be 
that  passion  for  a  kingdom  or — a  king.  So  fine  an  irony 
has  history,  that  that  which  makes  the  shame  of  its  wives 
makes  the  glory  of  its  kings  ! 

Clovis  succeeded  to  the  kingdom  of  his  father  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  if,  indeed,  a  strip  of  Rhineland  and  a  band  of 
followers  can  be  called  a  kingdom.  Clovis  was  poor,  but 
he  was  young  ;  his  resources  were  small,  but  his  valor 
boundless  ;  his  followers  few,  but  congenial. 

Six  years  elapse,  after  the  accession  of  Clovis  to  his 
throne,  before  the  first  great  event  of  his  career  writes  itself 
indelibly  upon  the  page  of  history.  At  this  moment  of 
world-history  the  situation  in  Gaul — modern  France — was 
as  follows  :  Its  north-eastern  portion  was  the  territory  of 
Syagrius.  Its  central  and  south-western  lands  were  in 
cluded  in  the  great  barbarian  kingdom  of  the  \ri8igoth8, 
which  extended  also  across  the  Pyrenees  and  took  in  part  of 
Spain.  The  small  sea-coast  strip  remaining  in  the  north 
west  was  called  Armorica,  and  was  virtually  independent. 
The  more  considerable  south-eastern  lands,  which  bordered 
Italy,  were  possessed  by  the  Burgundians,  who  also  ruled 


94  GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

themselves.  To  the  east  of  Burgundy,  along  that  region 
of  the  Rhine,  an  indeterminate  host — that  barbarian  con 
glomerate  called  suggestively  the  Allemanni  (All-men) — lay 
crouching  with  gleaming  eyes,  biding  their  time  for  a 
spring  across  the  river  barrier.  And  above  them,  farther 
along  the  beach,  Clovis,  the  young  Frank  chieftain,  roamed 
restlessly  up  and  down,  with  his  congenial  followers,  and 
cast  glances  full  of  speculation  across  to  Gallic  lands.  We 
may  well  pause  here  to  take  in  this  situation,  in  this 
momentous  decade,  between  the  years  of  our  Lord  476  and 
486.  All  eyes  that  glance  on  mediaeval  history  must  turn 
thither  and  fix  an  affrighted  gaze  upon  these  ten  years,  in 
which  the  future  of  the  world  is  pending.  Visigoth  and,  be 
hind  him,  Vandal  on  the  west  ;  Ostrogoth  on  the  south  ;  Al 
lemanni  on  the  east,  each  stretching  neck  and  straining  eye 
— all  turning  a  fascinated  gaze  upon  the  basilisk  Syagrius. 
He  is  the  cocked  hat  of  Napoleon  to  them.  And  all  this 
time  Clovis  whistles  softly  up  and  down  the  hither  Rhine, 
planning,  in  the  waiting  for  performance  ;  dreaming,  in 
delay  of  deed,  "  dreams  no  mortal  ever  dared  to  dream 
before."  But  finally  the  spell  is  broken.  The  contest 
begins,  and  Clovis  strides  forth  to  throw  down  before 
Syagrius  the  gauntlet  of  battle. 


II. 

"  In  the  manner  and  almost  in  the  language  of  chivalry," 
says  Gibbon,  "  Clovis  deiied  Syagrius  and  called  him  to 
combat.  Syagrius  haughtily  accepted  the  challenge,  and 
met  him  in  the  vicinity  of  the  ancient  city  Soissons." 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  95 

Tragic  ground,  this,  for  France  !  For  if  the  Soissons  of 
the  fifth  be  not  identical  with  the  Sedan  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  two  are  sufficiently  related  to  suggest  a  striking 
reflection.  For  it  was  here,  in  the  year  486,  that  Clovis 
swung  his  battle-axe  victorious  over  Roman  heads,  and 
wrote  in  Roman  blood  the  birthday  of  French  Empire  ! 
And  it  M-as  here,  in  1STO,  that  the  last  French  emperor 
delivered  up  his  sword,  and  William  of  Prussia  wrote  in 
Frenchmen's  blood  the  death -day  of  French  Empire  ! 

The  victory  of  Clovis  at  Soissons  put  an  end  to  Roman 
rule  in  Gaul.  Syagrius  fled  to  the  Visigothic  court  and 
disappeared  from  view.  Clovis  filled  his  place  in  Gaul, 
and  came  to  view  for  all  time. 

We  of  the  nineteenth  know  now  that  at  this  moment,  in 
the  fifth  century,  Clovis,  by  his  victory  over  Syagrius,  had 
laid  the  corner-stone  of  French  Empire.  To  us  he  already 
appears  a  hero,  having  taken  that  first  step  which  costs,  and 
after  which  all  the  others  come  as  a  matter  of  course.  But 
nothing  was  farther  from  the  fact.  This  first  step  of  Clovis 
led  the  way  to  others  more  costly.  What  he  had  gained 
he  must  hold,  and  that  was  not  a  matter  of  a  day's  fight. 
A  difficulty  more  subtle  than  the  barbarian  mind  had  been 
accustomed  to  grapple  with  now  arose  to  threaten  Clovis. 

The  Roman  world  had  long  since  been  nominally  Chris 
tian.  Roman  Gaul  was  extremely  Christian,  as  we  shall 
see,  and  Roman  Gaul,  however  it  may  perforce  submit  to 
a  political  master  not  Roman,  had  serious  scruples  in  sub 
mitting  to  a  pagan  master  not  Christian.  Thus  the  situa 
tion  became  very  difficult  'for  Clovis.  Not  being  one 
which  the  battle-axe  could  adjust,  he  was  hardly  equal  to  it. 
These  Romish  priests,  with  their  wonderful  learning,  and 


96         GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

language,  and  polished  dignity,  were  more  than  a  match  fox 
our  lusty  Frank.  Yet  Clovis  was  not  without  diplomacy  ; 
and  two  circumstances  assisted  hini  to  meet  the  emergency. 

The  first  of  these  circumstances  was  the  circumstance  of 
sectarianism.  A  split  in  the  opposing  party,  as  we  of 
to-day  know,  is  often  the  determining  factor  in  the  fight. 
Such  a  split  had  occurred  long  before  the  time  of  Clovis, 
and  now  had  yawned  into  irreconcilable  divergence.  Thus 
early  in  the  history  of  the  Christian  era  are  we  called  upon 
to  witness  the  tremendous  power  of  sect,  as  a  force  in  the 
causation  of  events.  Already  in  the  fifth  century  was  the 
half -admiring  pagan  world  invited  to  "  see  how  these 
Christians  hate  each  other  !' ' 

The  great  sect  of  those  days,  and  that  \vith  which  alone 
we  have  to  do,  was  that  of  the  Arian  heresy.  All  who 
indorsed  the  doctrine  of  Arius  were  considered  heterodox, 
and  were  known  as  Arians,  while  those  untainted  with  this 
heresy  were  deemed  the  orthodox,  and  were  called  by  that 
glorious  but  so  often  misapplied  name  of  Catholics.  A  good 
follower  of  Augustine  in  the  fifth  century  could  no  more 
fellowship  a  good  follower  of  Arius  than  could  a  rigid  disci 
ple  of  Calvin  in  our  century  fellowship  one  of  Chunder  Sen. 

Now,  the  Roman  Gauls  were  fiercely  orthodox,  while  all 
around  them,  the  Visigothic,  Ostrogothic,  and  Burgundian 
converts  to  Christianity,  were  fiercely  Arian  ;  and  these 
two  divisions  of  the  early  Church  hated  each  other  most 
cordially.  In  this  way  was  Clovis  helped  out  of  his 
dilemma,  for  the  hatred  of  his  orthodox  Roman  subjects  of 
their  Christian  but  Arian  neighbors  was  quite  as  great  as 
was  their  repugnance  to  a  pagan  ruler.  They  may  even 
have  thought  the  latter  the  least  of  two  evils.  Thus 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE. 


97 


prevented  alliance  with  those  neighbors  against  the 
conquering  Clovis,  who  threatened  the  barbarian  nations  in 
Gaul  with  the  same  political  ruin  he  had  brought  to  the 
Homans.  How  lasting  would  have  been  this  prevention  of 
such  allied  resistance  to  him,  or  what  might  have  come 
about  from  this  complication,  it  were  profitless  to  conjecture. 
We  can  only  follow  the  course  of  events,  and  eee  how  the 
matter  took  care  of  itself. 

The  course  of  events  is  just  now  the  course  of  Clovis,  and 
the  next  thing  we  have  to  chronicle  in  his  career  is  also  the 
second  which  served  to  assist  him  in  meeting  the  situation 
in  which  we  find  him  after  his  conquest  of  Roman  Gaul, 
the  circumstance  of  his  marriage. 

More  than  one  woman  goes  to  the  making  of  one  man, 
or,  if  not,  the  man  lacks  something  of  being  finished. 
The  mother  makes  the  man,  perhaps,  but  the  wife  manufact 
ures  him.  Sometimes  the  wife,  in  her  manufacture,  con 
firms  the  making  of  the  mother,  sometimes  counteracts  it. 
The  case  of  Clovis  was  that  of  counteraction,  for  it  appears 
certain  that  the  influence  of  Clotilda,  the  wife,  went  far 
toward  nullifying  the  influence  cf  her  mother-in-law.  She 
seems,  as  much  as  possible,  to  have  been  the  opposite  in 
character  of  her  husband's  mother. 

In  the  first  place,  Clotilda  was  a  Christian  and  orthodox, 
and  she  set  herself  to  the  task  of  her  husband's  conversion 
with  Catholic  zeal. 

I  am  not  informed  of  the  circumstances  of  the  courtship 
of  Clovis.  It  occurs  to  me  with  force,  however,  that  these 
recently-acquired,  troublesome  Catholic  subjects  of  his  may 
have  acted  the  part  of  match-makers  to  a  very  great  extent. 
At  any  rate,  we  can  all  perceive  the  significance  to  them  of 


98          GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

the  marriage  of  their  pagan  monarch  with  this  Catholic 
princess,  and  how  far  it  would  go  toward  reconciling  him 
to  them,  as  being  now  in  a  hopeful  way  for  conversion  to 
their  faith. 

A  painful  suspicion  also  whispers  itself  in  my  ear,  sug 
gesting  that  in  Clovis  the  passion  of  the  lover  may  have 
conspired  with  the  policy  of  the  ruler  in  the  wooing  of  his 
bride.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the  Roman  Catholic  clergy  now 
adhered  to  Clovis  with  hopeful  loyalty.  The  pious  hope  of 
priest  and  wife  was  not  rewarded  earlier  than  the  date  of  the 
next  great  battle  of  Clovis,  in  the  year  496,  ten  years  after 
the  battle  of  Soissons.  This  encounter  was  with  a  foe  vastly 
different  from  that  of  ten  years  before,  but  its  result  hardly 
second  in  importance. 


111. 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  Allemannic  tribes  as 
menacing  the  eastern  frontier  of  Gaul.  They  were  but  the 
advance  guard  of  untold,  almost  unimaginable  savage  hordes 
that  swarmed  within  those  northern  wilds  of  Germany 
which  Rome  had  disdained  to  penetrate.  It  was  this  force 
which  Clovis  had  now  to  confront.  Had  they  succeeded  in 
the  contest  and  pushed  their  way  over  the  dead  bodies  of 
these  Franks,  to  fill  again  the  place  of  Syagrius  which 
Clovis  had  won,  unnumbered  myriads  must  have  rushed 
down  from  those  dark  forests  of  the  north  to  fill,  in  turn, 
the  places  thus  left  vacant,  and  the  establishment  of  the 
new  empire  must  have  been  indefinitely  retarded  or  dis 
astrously  changed. 


OLD   ROME    AND    NEW    FRANCE.  99 

Near  the  present  site  of  Cologne  these  two  barbarian 
tribes,  whom  Gibbon  calls  the  fiercetst  of  the  many  then  in 
view,  confronted  each  other,  to  settle  between  them  this 
momentous  question.  The  battle  raged  furiously  and 
variously,  but  at  last  fortune  seemed  to  perch  upon  the 
Allemannic  banner.  The  gods  of  the  Franks  were  invoked 
to  aid,  but  appeared  to  be  otherwise  engaged.  Then,  when 
defeat  seemed  certain,  in  that  extremity  which  brings  each 
man  begging  to  the  Almighty  One,  Clovis,  the  long-resist 
ing,  in  true  barbaric  heartiness  spoke  out  to  Clotilda's  God, 
praying  for  victory  and  vowing  Him  the  service  of  a  Chris 
tian  ever  after  might  he  but  win  this  tight.  From  this  in 
stant  the  tide  of  battle  turned.  Fresh  vigor  flew  into  the 
arms  of  the  retreating  Franks.  They  turned  upon  their 
pursuers,  and  fought,  with  fanatic  frenzy,  the  battle  over 
again.  The  Allemanni  were  slaughtered  in  vast  numbers, 
and  their  nation  completely  subdued.  The  dead  bodies  of 
their  slain  formed  an  effectual  barrier  against  invasion  of 
remoter  savage  hordes.  The  eastern  frontier  of  Gaul  was 
temporarily  assured. 

A  second  consequence  of  this  battle,  greater  even  than 
the  settlement  of  an  eastern  frontier,  was  the  conversion  of 
Clovis.* 

*  It  were  a  profitless,  perhaps  painful,  inquiry  to  seek  to  ascertain  the 
true  nature  of  this  so-called  conversion.  We  may  well  suspend  our  criti 
cism,  and  temper  skepticism  with  faith — we  who  have  said  that  we 

".  .  .  believe  that  in  all  ages 
Every  human  heart  is  human, 
That  in  even  savage  bosoms 
There  are  longings,  yearnings,  strivings, 
For  the  good  they  comprehend  not." 

The  barbarian  chieftain  is  told  the  story  of  the  death  and  sufferings  of 


100          GEOBGE   ELIOT'S    POETKY,    AND   OTHEK    STUDIES. 

So  Clovis  keeps  his  vow  and  changes  masters.  He  is 
received  into  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  and — because  he 
is  a  Catholic,  not  an  Arian — is  hailed  bj  the  Pope  with 
the  title  of  "Most  Christian  !"  With  three  thousand  of 
his  Franks  following  he  goes  behind  liemigius  to  the  bap 
tismal  font.  Here  is  exercise  for  imagination.  What  a 
picture  does  it  hang  before  us  !  Clovis,  fresh  from  the 
lield  of  battle,  with  his  elated  soldiers,  bending  massive 
forms  before  the  mitred  bishop  in  the  grand  Cathedral 
of  Rheims.  That  long-haired  monarch — for  long  hair 
was  the  distinction  of  the  German  kings — those  fair- 
skinned,  fair-haired  warriors,  suppliant,  while  liemigius 
uplifts  the  cross  before  them,  and,  in  sonorous  Latin,  com 
mands  for  it  their  homage — "Mitis  depone  colla,  Sicam- 
ber !  Adora  quod  incendisti,  incende  quod  adordsti  /" 
Truly  new  times  this  for  Clovis,  to  bow  meekly  anywhere, 
to  anything  ! 

Christ.  Missing  the  meaning  of  that  matchless  tale,  his  impulsive  heart 
swells  with  indignation,  and,  clasping  his  battle-axe,  he  cries  out, 
"  Would  I  had  been  there  at  the  head  of  my  valiant  Franks  !  I  would 
have  avenged  His  injuries."  Yet,  I  think,  it  is  only  we  who  smile  at 
this  barbaric  fervor.  I  think  the  patient  Christ,  who  wept  but  never 
laughed  over  the  creature  He  died  to  save,  would  likelier  lay  a  gentle 
hand  upon  that  outstretched  arm  of  Clovis,  discerning,  as  He  alone  can 
do,  the  unconscious  worship  in  that  generous  heart ! 

Led,  as  a  child,  by  the  bishop  to  the  Cathedral  of  Kheims,  Clovis,  his 
savage  nature  impressed  and  elated  by  the  splendor  of  its  adornmentss 
asks,  ' '  Is  this  the  kingdom  of  God,  of  which  I  am  become  an  heir  ?' ' 

Then  spake  the  gray  barbarian, 
Lower  than  a  Christian  child  1 

And  Kemigius  answers,  "  No  ;  but  it  is  the  road  thither  !"  And  there 
the  shadow  of  Hildebrand  was  cast  before  ! 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  101 

But  the  cross  is  adored — at  least  in  form — the  pagan  idols 
which  have  been  worshipped  are  burned,  and  the  end  for 
which  wife  and  priest  have  long  been  waiting  is  attained. 
Clovis  is  a  Christian,  and  his  victorious  career  is  fairly 
under  way.  The  sword  in  one  hand,  the  cross  in  the  other, 
he  is  prepared  for  any  emergency  of  conquest.  He  is  now 
at  length  ready  for  his  third  and  final  move  in  the  game 
which  wins  the  new  empire.  This  is  his  victory  at  Poitiers 
over  the  Visigoths  in  Gaul. 


IV. 

The  Visigoths  are  intensely  Arian ;  Clovis  is  intensely 
Catholic.  Arianism  is  a  heresy — a  shocking  heresy,  and 
Clovis  feels  now  that  it  is  his  duty  to  rebuke  this  scandalous 
schism  in  the  Church.  He  will  fight  the  Visigoths  and 
expel  them  from  Gaul.  Thus  does  his  piety  supply  him 
pretext  for  a  conquest  "  in  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new  !" 

The  preparations  of  Clovis  for  this  last  great  campaign 
have  all  the  character  of  a  crusade.  He  summons  his 
prelates  and  princes  to  a  council  at  Paris,  whither  he 
has  removed  the  seat  of  government  from  Soissons.  Here 
he  advises  with  them  on  the  best  means  of  extirpation 
of  this  lamentable  heresy  from  the  territory  of  Gaul.  He 
has  a  word  for  both.  He  says :  "It  grieves  me  that 
the  A  Hans  possess  as  yet  the  fairest  lands  of  Gaul.  Let 
us  inarch  against  them  with  the  aid  of  God,  and,  having 
punished  the  heretics,  we  will  possess  and  divide  their 
lands  !" 

His  warriors  all  fall  in  with  this  disinterested  plan,  and 


102       GEOEGE  ELIOT'S  POETEY,  AND  OTHEB  STUDIES. 

swear  that  until  the  Arians  are  punished  their  beards  shall 
remain  uncut  !  * 

When  the  fires  of  fanaticism  are  once  kindled  every  cir 
cumstance  adds  fuel  to  the  flames.  The  Crusaders  set  forth 
amid  a  shower  of  auspicious  portents  ;  their  journey  to  the 
battle-field  is  one  series  of  miraculous  omens.  Their  route 
is  indicated  by  a  meteor  ;  the  unknown  fording-place  of  a 
river  by  the  passage  through  before  them  of  a  white  hart  of 
supernatural  beauty.  Alaric  II.  and  his  Visigothic  hosts 
are  paralyzed  with  the  rumors  which  precede  the  advent  of 
the  enemy.  Under  these  circumstances  the  army  of  Clovis 
closes  in  around  them  and  reduces  them  to  speedy  submis 
sion.  They  fly,  and  Clovis  pursues  them  ;  until  they  dis 
appear  behind  the  Pyrenees,  he  gives  no  quarter.  Thus 
ends  the  Visigothic  supremacy  in  Gaul.  Thus  are  the 
hated  heretics  punished  and  their  fair  lands  possessed. 

This  third  great  battle  on  the  field  of  Poitiers,  in  the 
year  507,  consummated  substantially  the  Frankish  conquest 
of  Gaul.  And  with  this  ends  our  concern  in  the  career  of 
Clovis.  Of  his  treaty  with  the  little  free  Armorica  ;  of  his 
contests,  finally  ending  in  victory,  with  the  more  obstinate 
and  troublesome  Burgundy  ;  of  his  indiscriminate  fling 
ing  hither  and  yon  among  his  too  presuming  kindred  and 
dukes  of  the  formidable  Francesco,,  by  way  of  filling  up 
his  time,  we  have  naught  to  say.  All  these  things  hap- 

*  Clotilda,  the  Christian  wife,  stands  by  and  counsels  her  lord  to 
promise  God  a  monastery  after  the  accomplishment  of  this  pious  pur 
pose,  and  Clovis,  filled  with  devotion,  seizes  his  favorite  battle-axe 
(which,  after  the  manner  of  the  swords  of  heroes,  has  a  name  as  individ 
ual  as  its  owner),  and  hurling  it  from  him,  exclaims,  "  There,  where  my 
Francisca  shall  stick,  will  I  build  a  house  to  God  !" 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  103 

pened,  as  lie  who  runs  may  read.  Just  one  hundred  years 
after  the  sack  of  Rome  by  Alarie  the  Goth,  in  the  year 
510,  Clovis  received  from  the  eastern  empire  the  title— 
the  ultimatum,  it  seems,  of  his  ambition — of  Consul. 
Gibbon  says  :  "  On  the  solemn  day  (of  coronation)  the 
monarch  of  Gaul,  placing  a  diadem  upon  his  own  head, 
was  invested,  in  the  Church  of  St.  Martin,  with  the  pur 
ple  tunic  and  mantle.  From  thence  he  proceeded  on 
horseback  to  the  Cathedral  of  Tours,  and  as  he  passed 
through  the  streets  scattered  with  his  own  hand  a  donation 
of  gold  and  silver  to  the  joyful  multitude,  who  incessantly 
repeated  their  acclamations  of  Consul  f  and  Augustus!" 

Strange  thing,  this  human  nature,  with  its  misapplied 
magnanimity  and  irrelevant  vanity  !  Clovis,  a  year  before 
his  death,  with  the  territory  of  the  Visigoths,  the  Burgun- 
dians,  the  Romans  in  Gaul,  and  diverse  barbarian  tribes 
beneath  his  feet,  the  crown  of  a  new  empire  on  his  head, 
looks  not  forward  to  the  future  of  his  kindred  Franks,  but 
backward  to  the  past  of  his  alien  Romans.  The  name,  the 
fame,  the  future  grandeur  of  the  nebulous  new  empire  does 
not  compare  with  the  faded  grandeur  of  the  starry  old. 
He  would  rather  stand,  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority — 
ghostly  and  fictitious  though  it  be — among  the  buried 
CiEsars,  than  build  for  himself  the  solid  fame  of  founder  of 
that  empire  which  subdued  the  empire  of  the  Caesars. 
Sweeter  to  him  the  cry  from  pusillanimous  Roman  throats 
of  Consul  !  Consul  !  and  Augustus  !  though  he  knew  it  but 
the  forced  utterance  of  cunning  policy,  than  all  the  thun 
derous  vociferations  of  his  lusty  Franks  of  Clovis  !  Clovis  ! 
Emperor  of  France  1  Truly,  a  lame  and  impotent  con 
clusion. 


104        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

The  next  year  after  his  coronation  as  Consul,  in  the  year 
511  of  the  Christian  era,  having  attained  the  age  of  only 
forty-five  years,  after  a  reign  of  thirty  years,  Clovis  died. 

And  here  we  part  company  with  the  founder  of  the  French 
Empire.  Our  knowledge  of  him  as  an  individual  is  too 
limited  to  justify  a  discussion  of  his  character.  We  leave  him 
as  we  find  him,  unequivocally  a  conqueror,  "  cast,"  as  Hal- 
lam  says,  "  in  the  true  mould  of  conquerors,  and  may  justly 
be  counted  among  the  first  of  his  class  both  for  the  splen 
dor  and  the  guiltiness  of  his  ambition."  He  is  conspicuous 
only  as  the  figure  which  emerges  from  the  chaotic  politics 
of  that  ruinous  epoch,  assuming  the  role  of  Founder  of  the 
New  State.  In  this  character  his  main  equipment  is  that 
of  his  battle-axe.  We  discern  in  him  little  of  constructive 
genius  to  mould  the  state  after  he  has  founded  it. 

We  cannot  depart  from  this  vestibule  of  mediaeval  time 
without  a  glance  at  another  figure,  whose  name  we  have 
already  mentioned — a  figure  most  independent  and  conspic 
uous,  and  at  this  moment  of  world-history  most  significant  of 
the  old,  as  is  that  of  Clovis  of  the  new.  We  must  turn  to 
that  red  sky  of  Rome,  if  we  would  look  on  him,  for  he 
stands  bathed  in  its  last  glow — Boethius  !  last  Roman  worthy 
to  hold  rank  with  Cato  and  with  Cicero.  Yet  not  only 
by  that  departing  ray  of  Rome  is  he  conspicuous  to  our 
eyes.  He  shines  with  light  self-centred — that  diamond- 
shine  which  issues  from  the  fiery  particle  within, 

"  The  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream," 

that  ray  which  makes  him  common  to  all  climes  and  times, 
an  immortal  citizen  in  the  commonwealth  of  genius  and  of 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  105 

faith.  There  is  little  in  the  personality  of  Clovis  to  interest 
us.  He  has  no  magnetism  save  that  which  the  iron  of  his 
battle-axe  may  lend.  But  the  tender  gaze  of  all  genera 
tions  is  fixed  with  loyal  love  on  the  figure  of  Boethius. 
We  can  never  learn  enough  about  him.  No  other  could  be 
contrived  to  oppose  to  the  figure  of  Clovis  which  should 
more  vividly  discover  the  contrast  of  forces  which  contend 
for  mastery  in  the  conflict  of  the  ages,  and  none  more 
nakedly  representative  of  the  forces  at  work  in  this  mingling 
of  the  old  with  the  new  at  this  chaotic  period. 

Clovis  stands  to  us  as  representative  of  the  red  young 
blood,  the  cordy  young  muscle  that  must  vitalize  the 
shrunken  veins  of  time  and  nerve  the  arm  of  humanity  for 
the  work  of  construction  of  new  political  empire  in  the 
state  that  is  to  be.  The  lusty  young  Frank  has  little  of 
equipment — nor  needs  he  more — for  the  task  that  is  set 
him,  than  that  same  bright  battle-axe  along  whose  whetted 
edge  we  see  red  blood-drops  globing.  He  stands  all  uncon 
scious  that  in  the  mirror  of  one  face  are  seen  the  shades  of 
all  Rome's  Caesars  in  their  purple,  and  in  the  mirror  of  its 
opposite  face  are  seen  the  forecast  images  of  the  Louis  and 
the  Napoleons,  the  Richelieus  and  the  Bismarcks — the 
shadows  cast  before  of  coming  events  and  coming  men  I 
Boethius  stands  to  us  as  a  parting  summary  of  all  that  was 
best  of  Rome — as  senator,  as  patrician,  as  poet,  as  philoso 
pher.  When  Clovis  was  crowned  Consul  at  Tours,  Boethius 
was  already  Consul  in  the  court  of  Theodoric  at  Rome,  and 
prmceps  senatus.  But  too  true  a  Roman  to  wear  Roman 
honors  in  a  Gothic  court,  he  was  soon  found  guilty  of  Roman 
patriotism — i.e.^  of  Gothic  treason — and. the  court  was  ex- 
changed  for  a  dungeon.  But  we  bless  the  dungeon  of  Boe- 


106        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

thius  as  we  bless  the  cell  of  Bunyan.  For  from  it  came 
that  golden  volume  which  poured  enduring  consolation  into 
all  those  ages.  Beloved  of  Alfred,  beloved  of  Charlemagne, 
beloved  of  Dante,  called,  during  those  dark,  laboring  ages 
the  Augustine  of  philosophy,  Boethius  comes  down  to  us  the 
noblest  Roman  of  them  all,  since  from  those  prison  walls 
could  issue  strains  like  this:  "Nobility  is  in  no  other 
respect  good  than  as  it  imposes  an  obligation  upon  its  pos 
sessors  not  to  degenerate  from  the  merit  of  their  ancestors  ! 
If  you  are  not  therefore  esteemed  illustrious  from  your 
own  worth,  you  can  derive  no  real  splendor  from  the  merits 
of  others."  There  speaks  the  nobleman,  whether  sixth 
century  patrician,  in  whose  veins  coursed  the  purplest  blood 
of  Rome's  most  noble  families,  or  nineteenth  century  Dem 
ocrat — a  grand  old  gardener  at  the  gate, 

"...  too  proud  to  care  from  whence  he  came  !" 

Unconsciously  this  great  soul  sounds  the  trumpet  notes 
of  the  truth  which  in  all  those  slow,  sad  ages  struggled  to 
be  heard  above  the  clash  and  discord,  and  which  now  rings 
joy-bells  in  our  glorious  nineteenth  century  ;  but  he,  its 
noble  voicer,  in  that  darkest  time  heard  but  the  tolling  of 
death -knells,  and  looked  sadly  backward  to  Rome's  free- 
dom,  and  counted 

"  Sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow 
In  remembering  happier  things." 

"We  may  fancy  the  stern  face  of  the  passionless  Genius  of 
History,  as  she  stands  upon  some  Alpine  summit  between 
France  and  Italy,  at  the  close  of  this  fifth  century,  to  relax 
a  little,  half  in  pity,  half  in  mirth,  at  the  parody  of  great- 


OLD  ROME  AND  NEW  FRANCE.  107 

ness  which  her  puppets  play.  Yet,  as  she  gazes  on  the 
perfect  plan  which  through  all  these  puppet-plays  goes 
on  to  its  supreme  fulfilment,  we  may  behold  a  gleam  of 
fathomless  content,  restored  to  her  countenance,  and  may 
perhaps  catch  the  words  of  that  epilogue  which,  after  the 
play  is  over,  she  lingers  to  say. 

With  one  hand  to  the  south,  she  exclaims  :  "  Go  !  thou 
imperial  Rome  ;  take  thou  henceforth  thy  place  among  the 
deeds  which  have  been  done.  Die,  as  such  deeds  must  die. 
Imperishable  fact  among  the  facts  of  history,  recede  now 
into  the  past,  thy  future  dwelling-place  !  I  would  thou 
could'st  go  queenly,  as  thou  cam'st  and  long  hast  stood, 
the  purple  trailing  royally  and  sweeping  past  with  tragic 
funereal  mien.  But  since  the  comedy  must  come,  and  then 
the  farce,  make  now  an  end  !.  Thy  errand  with  the  world 
is  done.  The  time  was  set,  and  now  the  hour  strikes. 
Farewell,  thou  glorious  Rome  !  Thy  glories  cover  well 
thy  guilt ;  thy  graces  cover  well  thy  shame.  The  world  has 
gained  from  thee  its  priceless  gains,  its  luminous  examples, 
its  enduring  warnings.  Fare  thee  well  !" 

And  with  a  right  hand  to  the  north,  she  says  :  "Wel 
come,  thou  infant  France,  born  from  the  death  of  Rome  ! 
Two  hours  are  set  for  thee,  as  for  all  things  human  ;  the 
first  strikes  now.  That  other  hour  is  set,  and  it  will  come. 
'Twixt  that  and  this  lies  all  thy  errand  with  the  waiting 
world.  For  those  that  pass  away  I  have  a  smile  ;  for  those 
that  come,  a  tear.  And  over  thee,  yet  in  thy  swaddling- 
clothes,  while  1  discern  the  life  that  is  to  be,  I  bend,  and 
with  a  solitary  tear  baptize  thee — France  /" 


Charlemagne. 


CHARLEMAGNE. 

AT  the  conclusion  of  the  eighth  century  we  find  upon 
the  throne  of  Clovis  a  man,  son  of  an  usurper,  called  by  his 
kindred  subjects  Karl,  by  his  alien  subjects  Carolus  ; 
endowed  by  nature  with  superb  physical  gifts,  with  a  clear 
and  curious  intellect,  a  swift,  inexorable  will,  a  fervent 
heart,  and  a  religious  spirit  ;  further  furnished  by  inherit 
ance  with  the  dominant  empire  of  the  world,  and  with 
the  following  of  his  father's  veteran  armies,  while  the 
Genius  of  Conquest  beckons  on  this  side  and  on  that.  Thus 
the  facts  of  history  set  forth,  in  the  eighth  century, 
this  monarch  Charlemagne.  At  the  conclusion  of  the 
Middle  Ages  we  behold  this  same  Karl  standing  in  a  radiant 
flood  of  fiction,  with  the  aspect  of  a  demi-god  ! 

Poetry  has  been  defined  as  the  highest  truth,  but  the 
poets  have  done  little  for  history.  If  the  singers  had  been 
content  to  let  Arthur  alone,  we  might  now  have  had  a  his 
tory  of  him.  Poets  rush  in  where  historians  fear  to  tread  ; 
after  idyls,  no  history  ! 

In  the  latter  half  of  the  Middle  Ages  the  poets,  in  the 
dearth  of  heroes,  got  hold  of  Charlemagne,  and  made  him 
realize  to  them  their  ideal  man.  The  monks  got  hold  of 
Charlemagne,  and  made  him  realize  to  them  their  ideal 
saint.  The  knights  got  hold  of  Charlemagne,  and  made 
him  realize  to  them  their  ideal  chevalier  ;  and  so  it  came 


112          GEORGE    E-LIOT'S   POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

about  that  Charlemagne  stood  as  a  name  for  everything 
which  in  those  ages  could  be  conceived  the  best  in  human- 
ity — summing  up  in  one  every  possible  grace  and  gift  of 
monarch  and  man,  hero  and  saint — realizing  to  each  ideal 
perfection  !  But  the  idealized,  of  nations  as  of  individuals, 
are  subject  to  the  same  law  which  governs  the  idealizer,  the 
law  of  reaction  ;  and  to  this  rule,  we  fear,  there  are  no 
exceptions.  With  the  early  sunbeams  of  the  Renaissance 
the  lovely  legend-mists  which  had  hung  around  the  form  of 
Charlemagne  were,  not  indeed  dispelled,  but  cut,  and 
when  the  fresh  breeze  of  advancing  day  set  in  were  lifted 
for  the  image.  And  now,  in  the  high  noon  of  our  scientific 
century,  but  little  enchantment  remains  to  the  picture,  save 
that  which  distance  always  lends.  The  kaiser  of  the  eighth 
century  unconsciously  set  the  fashion  for  his  own  treatment 
in  the  nineteenth,  when  he  fell  upon  the  Irmensul  of  the 
Saxons,  and,  razing  the  temple,  stripped  the  idol  of  its  gold 
and  gems,  and  bore  it,  naked  and  unadorned,  to  the  monas 
tery  which  was  at  once  the  treasury  and  the  library  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  Disillusioned  is  this  man  to  us,  but  not  yet 
destroyed.  There  are  verities  in  this  mass  of  fiction  which 
may  be  eliminated. 

There  was  a  man  named  Eginhardus,  and  he  was  secre 
tary  to  the  Kaiser  Karl.  The  secretary  wrote  the  memoirs 
of  his  monarch,  and,  making  due  allowance  for  the  par 
tiality  of  friend,  or  devotion  of  subject,  or  vanity  of  biogra 
pher,  we  have  left  a  personal  history  so  simple  and  direct 
that  it  commands  our  credence.  From  this  mainly,  with 
a  few  other  ancient  chronicles  and  comments,  rather  than 
from  any  modern  researches,  do  we  make  some  brief  sketch 
of  this  luminous  figure  in  mediaeval  history. 


CHABLEMAGNE.  113 


I. 

First  let  us  look  at  this  man  of  whom  we  propose  to 
speak.  And  here  we  will  let  Eginhardus  speak  for  us. 
Behold,  first,  his  frontispiece  photograph.  A  figure  whose 
height  was  seven  times  the  length  of  his  foot ;  whose 
heavy  body  was  well  supported  by  massive  limbs  ;  a  round 
head,  hair  beautiful  to  look  upon,  a  nose  of  more  than 
middle  size,  enormous  eyes,  large  and  lively,  writes  the 
secretary  ("  with  the  seeming  of  a  lion's,  and  shining  like 
carbuncles,"  adds  a  curt  old  chronicle),  a  countenance  joyful 
and  vivacious,  sitting  and  standing  like  a  king,  walking 
with  a  firm,  quick  step  ;  a  man  of  splendid  presence>  ac 
cording  to  all  accounts.  An  old  song  thus  puts  it,  in  obso 
lete  German  : 

"  Karl  war  den  Bosenglich  1" 
*  *  *  * 

And  sums  up  as  follows  : 

"  Ich  waiz  wol  das  von  wibe 
Nie  wart,  noch  nimmer  werden  sol 
Ein  man  so  maunig  tugend  vol." 

("  Karl  was  like  a  rose  !" 

****** 

*'  I  well  know  that  to  women 
So  sweet  a  hero-man 
Ne'er  lived,  nor  ever  can  I") 

Let  now  this  figure  stand  before  you  clad,  as  Egin 
hardus  dresses  him,  in  his  short  linen  drawers  and  his  long 
linen  drawers  ;  in  his  linen  waistcoat,  orer  which  is  drawii 


114:  GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

a  coat  trimmed  with  fur  ;  throw  upon  his  herculean  shoul 
ders  a  Venetian  mantle  ;  hang  at  his  side  his  good  and  well- 
beloved  sword  Joyeuse  ;  place  his  right  hand  upon  its  golden 
hilt — et  voila !  the  Kaiser  Karl  in  his  every-day  clothes. 
For  the  secretary  gives  us  to  understand  he  is  not  in 
the  least  "  dressed  up. "  He  has  line  clothes,  however  ;  but 
he  keeps  them  like  the  careful  man  he  is,  bringing  them 
forth  when  he  goes  visiting  to  Rome,  or  something  of  that 
sort.  Then  he  shines  from  diademed  head  to  jewelled  foot 
with  all  the  splendor  heart  could  wish.  Mostly  French 
splendor,  too,  for  Karl  was  a  clear  Frenchman,  despising 
all  alien  finery,  and  never  would  he  adopt  a  foreign  fash 
ion.  A  man  of  superb  health  which  no  bad  habits  under 
mined,  we  are  assured.  He  despised  drunkenness,  though 
not  an  abstainer  (like  Charles  XII.  of  Sweden),  but  moder 
ate  in  his  drinks.  In  eating  he  was  not  so — runs  on  the 
secretary — often  complaining  that  his  stomach  was  griev 
ously  empty — a  vacuum  which  his  nature  abhorred,  it 
would  seem,  for  the  old  chronicle  above  quoted  relates  that 
at  one  meal  he  would  eat  "a  goose,  two  fowls,  a  quarter  of 
mutton,"  etc.,  ad  lib.  ! 

Not  much  of  a  society  man,  in  the  modern  French  line, 
the  secretary  lets  us  know,  but  very  much  of  a  family 
man,  with  very  much  of  a  family.  I  count  up  nine 
("  wives,"  Hallam  calls  them  !)  successive  or  contemporary 
proprietors  of  the  royal  heart,  which  is  three  more  than 
divided  the  affections  of  our  amorous  English  Harry.  In 
deed,  Karl,  no  more  than  Henry,  was  a  polygamist,  and 
always  piously  interred  the  former  incumbent  of  the  royal 
affections  before  wedding  the  next,  unless,  indeed,  she  were 
unreasonably  contumacious  about  dying,  in  which  case  a 


CHARLEMAGNE.  115 

divorce  could  be  managed,  with  quite  the  modern  improve 
ments.  Only  one  wife — as  I  read  the  secretary — was 
divorced,  and  that  his  first,  whom  he  married  to  please  his 
mother  ;  as  a  matter  of  course  not,  therefore,  pleasing  him 
self.  In  every  succeeding  case  death  divorced  him,  leaving 
him  not,  wholly  to  mourn  as.  those  without  hope.  Concern 
ing  the  remarkable  mortality  of  these  eight  successive 
Fatimas  we  have  no  comments  from  the  chronicler. 

Karl's  children  were  numerous  and  very  dear  to  their 
father.  lie  gave  them  all  the  advantages  for  learning 
which  he  himself  so  diligently  improved,  making  no  differ 
ence  here,  it  would  seem,  between  the  sons  and  daughters. 
In  appointing  their  after  occupations,  however,  he  was 
orthodox.  The  boys  were  duly  put  on  horseback,  armed 
with  gun  and  sword,  and  sent  to  battle-field  and  forest  for 
such  game  as  either  could  afford.  The  daughters  were 
duly  seated  at  the  wheel,  and  taught  to  weave  what  they 
spun,  into  woollen  and  linen  cloths,  "  that  they  might  not 
grow  up  in  hateful  idleness."  For  both  boys  and  girls,  his 
children,  Karl  had  so  great  affection  that  he  never  sat  at 
table  without  them,  when  at  home,  and  when  he  took  a 
journey  they  accompanied  him. 

A  unique  procession  that  !  Karl,  the  kaiser,  in  his 
knickerbockers  and  Venetian  mantle,  his  trusty  Joyeuse  by 
his  side,  upon  his  head  his  kingly  helmet,  seated  high  up 
in  his  cumbrous  chariot.  His  numerous  sons,  an  ample 
body-guard,  cantering  on  either  side  ;  the  present  kaisenn 
and  the  daughters,  up  to  date,  following  hard  after  on  their 
ambling  pads.  Quite  a  mediaeval  Vicar  of  Waketield  and 
his  family  ! 

Eginhardus  lived  evidently  before   the   times  when  no 


116  GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND    OTHER   STUDIES. 

man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet.  Napoleon  would  liave  turned 
in  bis  sarcophagus,  if  not  broken  sheer  through  and  stood 
up,  cocked  hat  and  all,  at  being  portrayed,  as  is  Charle 
magne,  to  posterity — the  comfortable  old  gentleman,  "  eat 
ing  a  little  fruit  after  dinner  when  the  days  were  warm, 
drinking  once,  and  then  laying  off  his  clothes  and  re 
posing  himself  for  two  or  three  hours,"  of  a  summer 
afternoon  !  The  grand  monargne  submitted  to  the  toilette 
before  a  crowd  of  courtiers  who  came  to  "  assist"  at  the 
ceremony  of  encasing  the  languid  limbs  of  his  most  Chris 
tian  majesty  in  silks  and  laces.  Imagine  Louis  XIV. 
calmly  pulling  on  his  own  stout  shoes  and  stockings,  and 
donning  linen  drawers  and  waistcoat !  Yet  this  was  the 
habit  of  Karl,  while  listening  to  the  grievances  and  com 
plaints  from  crowds  of  lobbyists,  and  settling  affairs  with 
the  same  judicial  dignity,  we  are  assured,  as  if  he  were 
seated  in  the  Hall  of  Justice. 

A  very  vigilant  man,  this  same  napping  old  gentleman. 
All  eyes  and  feet  to  his  adversaries.  The  Saxon  poets  sur- 
named  him  Velox — Karl  the  Swift.  Indeed,  his  velocity 
was  almost  a  superstition  with  his  foes  ;  before  they 
dreamed  he  could  be  near  he  was  confronting  them,  and 
their  paralysis  of  astonishment  made  them  the  easier  his 
victims. 

As  to  brains,  Karl  was  extremely  clever,  according  to  all 
accounts,  learning  what  there  was  to  learn  with  the  greatest 
diligence  and  curiosity'.  Languages  were  the  principal 
acquirement  in  those  days,  the  mixed  condition  of  society 
making  necessary  an  acquisition  of  spoken  tongues.  The 
secretary  tells  us  that  his  master  was  fluent  in  Latin  as 
in  his  own  tongue,  proficient  in  Greek  also.  He  also  paid 


CHARLEMAGNE.  117 

much  attention  to  grammar  and  to  rhetoric.  As  to  his 
chirography,  the  scholars  have  quarrelled  virtuously  over 
the  question — Could  Charlemagne  write  ?  For  in  those 
days  a  man  might  read  and  converse  in  Latin  and  Greek 
and  not  be  able  to  write  his  own  name.  As  to  the  case  of 
Charlemagne,  we  are  content  to  take  the  word  of  the  secre 
tary  for  it — that  Karl  did  practise  penmanship,  but  began 
so  late  in  life  that  he  never  arrived  at  much  "  enjoyment" 
in  the  art.  At  any  rate,  he  made  his  mark,  and  that  is 
more  than  most  writers  do.  A  very  religious  man  was 
Karl,  and  a  good  Churchman  of  the  battle-axe  sort,  with  no 
special  ism.  A  devout  worshipper,  and.  a  great  stickler  for 
etiquette  and  propriety  in  church.  Church  music  was  a 
hobby,  and  it  chimes  well  with  the  make-up  of  this  joy 
ous,  hearty  monarch  that  he  should  be  a  lusty  singer,  as 
was  Luther.  Truly  devout  indeed  seems  Karl,  profiting  by 
as  well  as  profiting  his  church. 

But  we  have  indulged  the  secretary  long  enough  in  his 
fond  personalities.  We  must  turn  now  from  the  man  to 
the  monarch  and  the  conqueror  ;  and  here  our  pleasant  and 
affectionate  secretary's  garrulous  record  will  do  us  little 
service. 


II. 


Let  us  look,  then,  in  our  study  of  Charlemagne,  away 
from  the  man  to  his  career.  If  Karl  was  a  man  of  quali 
ties,  he  was  also  a  man  of  deeds. 

The  first  deed  which  belongs  to  the  ages  is,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course  with  so  thorough  a  man,  the  consolidation 


118          GEORGE   ELIOT'S   POETRY,    AND   OTHER    STUDIES. 

of  his  own  kingdom.  Two  things  stood  in  Charlemagne's 
way  at  his  accession  to  the  throne,  or,  rather,  two  exist 
ences — liis  brother  Carloman  and  the  dukes  of  Aquitaine. 

Carloman  was,  by  inheritance,  ruler  over  half  the  king 
dom.  Pepin  followed  the  singular  precedent  of  the  Mero 
vingian  monarchs,  and  at  his  death  divided  his  kingdom 
between  his  two  sons.  Here,  then,  at  the  start  was  a  huge 
something  for  Karl  to  manage,  and  unless  he  had  been 
joined  by  an  invincible  ally  he  might  have  found  it  the 
most  serious  thing  in  the  whole  long  list  of  his  manage 
ments,  and,  possibly,  unmanageable.  Carloman  might 
have  had  as  strong  a  fancy  for  a  whole  loaf  as  Carolus, 
and  possibly  Pepin's  grit  may  have  been  as  equally  di 
vided  between  his  sons  as  was  his  kingdom.  Had  Carlo 
man  lived  !  But  he  did  not  live  ;  or,  at  least,  he  disap 
peared.  The  critics  peep  and  mutter  here,  and  some  of 
them — notably  Voltaire,  that  enfant  terrible  to  the  heroes 
— find  here  a  tidbit.  In  fact,  one  could  wish  the  taking  off 
of  Carloman  had  been  a  matter  less  mysterious.  But,  in 
the  absence  of  facts,  there  is  room  for  the  charity  of  the 
charitable  as  well  as  the  suspicions  of  the  suspicious,  and  we 
are  not  bound  to  stain  the  princely  hand  of  Karl  with  the 
"eldest,  primal  curse,"  nor  to  hang  over  the  history  of 
infant  France  the  cloud  of  fratricidal  guilt,  with  which 
tradition  has  inextricably  invested  embryo  Rome.  The 
gist  of  it,  to  us,  is  that  Carloman  died,  and  his  heirs  disap 
peared,  and  that  four  years  after  his  succession  to  half  a 
throne  Carolus  was  "  elected  "  emperor  of  integral  France. 
For  Aquitaine  proved  not  so  delicate  a  difficulty.  Its  plot 
ting  dukes,  representatives  of  the  dethroned  dynasty,  were 
silenced  summarily.  An  intermittent  silence,  it  is  true, 


CHARLEMAGNE.  119 

for  there  was  never  lacking  under  the  mane  of  this  mettle 
some  Carlovingian  charger  the  Merovingian  gad-fly  with 
its  tormenting  sting  ;  but  if  too  small  a  matter  to  he  cured, 
it  could  be  endured,  like  any  other  irritation.  So  Carolus 
was  "elected"  over  the  whole  of  the  kingdom.  Nothing 
succeeds  like  success,  and  on  this  threshold  of  the  Middle 
Ages  it  is  no  time  to  make  much  sacrifice  of  might  to 
right.  Voltaire  says:  "The  fame  of  Charlemagne  is  one 
of  the  most  eminent  proofs  of  how  the  fortunate  result  of 
an  unrighteous  deed  justifies  and  makes  it  honorable.  His 
father  was  a  rebel,  himself  an  usurper. " 

The  next  pre-eminent  deed  of  Karl's  was  his  magnifi 
cent  work  in  Italy.  The  Lombards  teased  the  popes  and 
menaced  Home,  and  so  the  Yicar  of  Christ  came  begging 
to  Karl,  as  before  he  had  done  to  Pepin — for  popes  begged 
illustriously  in  those  days,  and  had  not  yet  waxed  fat 
enough  to  kick  at  kings.  Charlemagne  reversed  the  prov 
erb,  and  perceived  "  God's  extremity  to  be  man's  oppor 
tunity."  He  summoned  his  valiant  Franks,  leading  them 
up  the  terrible  Alps  and  down  again  on  the  other  side  with 
a  rapidity  which  the  Lombards  could  not  credit,  until  sur 
prised  at  Verona.  They  are  beaten  back  to  Pa  via,  capt 
ured,  and  Pavia  taken  ;  and  the  plunder — persons  and 
pelf — Carolus,  in  magnificent  wise,  turns  over  to  the 
Pope  as  a  trifling  token  of  affection.  This  is  Pope  Adrian, 
the  Jonathan  of  this  kingly  David,  and  Charlemagne  pays 
him  now  a  visit,  in  state,  between  the  battles,  by  way  of  a 
pleasure  trip.  First  visit  of  the  Kaiser  Karl  to  Rome,  but 
not  his  last. 

A  third  notable  deed  is  wrought  in  Spain,  and  this  time 
it  is  a  Moslem  emir,  in  place  of  Christian  pope,  whose 


120        GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHEK.  STUDIES. 

dilemma  made  Karl's  excuse  for  new  conquests.  To  avenge 
his  wrongs,  Karl  must  fight  over  the  same  ground  his  grand- 
sire  fought.  For  it  seems  Charles  Martel  did  not  annihilate 

o 

the  Saracens.  Mahometans  do  not  die  easy,  even  when 
very  "  sick,"  as  we  of  to-day  have  found.  Beaten  back  by 
Karl  Martel,  they  still  stand  massed  together  to  receive  the 
grandson  in  his  day. 

The  battle  of  Tours  was  fought  one  hundred  years  after 
the  death  of  Mahomet.  The  Moslems  who  met  Charle 
magne  and  routed  Roland  on  the  field  of  Roncesvalles  might 
themselves  have  heard  from  their  grandsires  the  story  of 
their  encounter  with  his  grandsire,  and,  in  turn,  some 
Moorish  apostate  might  yet  be  living  to  tell  of  his  grand- 
sire's  contact  with  contemporaries  of  the  great  Prophet 
himself.  The  Mahbmetan  faith  was  yet  young  and  lusty, 
and  its  adherents  no  mean  antagonists. 

With  his  back  turned  to  Italy — sideways  a  little,  perhaps, 
that  one  eye  might  retain  some  scrutiny  over  the  nominal 
gift  of  his  Italian  conquest  to  his  mitred  friend  Adrian — 
thither  hies  Karl  to  settle  this  internal  dissension  among  the 
Saracens.  Short  and  sharp  the  conflict,  and  Karl  comes 
back  covered  with  the  glory  of  a  magnanimous  interference, 
and  not  lacking  that  of  conquest  as  well,  his  kingdom  being 
the  larger  by  that  tract  of  land  adjacent  to  his  own  terri 
tory  called  the  Spanish  March.  As  he  flies  back  to  the  east 
to  meet  the  Saxons,  who  in  their  ponderous  way  are  making 
good  the  opportunity  of  his  absence  from  home,  he  leaves 
part  of  his  forces  in  the  lurch.  This  detachment  being  caught 
by  enemies  in,  to  them,  unfamiliar  mountain  passes,  is  easily 
subdued  despite  the  magic  horn  of  the  too  heroic  Roland, 
who  here  spills  out  his  blue  blood  in  vain,  and  thereby 


CHARLEMAGNE.  121 

creates  a  perennial  fount  of  inspiration  at  which  the  poeta 
and  romancers  of  the  Middle  Ages  fill  their  cups. 

And  now  to  the  east  and  that  unknown  north  toward 
which  Karl  ever  looked  with  longing  eyes.  The  languid 
south,  the  insignificant  west,  have  small  charms  for  his 
large  ambition.  Those  dark  German  forests,  filled  with 
strange  barbarian  foes,  worshipping  in  weird  temples  mar 
vellous  idols — those  famed  Northmen,  already  vikings, 
mariners,  pirates — they  are  "  foemen  worthy  of  his  steel." 
The  Saxons  proved  so,  for  it  took  thirty  odd  years  to  con 
quer  them.  Indomitable  ones  !  pouring  out  of  their  black 
forests  fresh  supplies  to  fill  in  the  broken  lines  at  the 
frontiers  ;  fighting  to  the  death  ;  beaten  back  into  the 
forests.  "  Conquered,"  say  Karl  and  his  Franks,  flying 
south  to  the  Lombards  or  west  to  Aquitaine,  to  stop 
some  revolt  broken  out  there.  "  Not  so,"  says  the  Saxon 
Phoenix,  rising  from  its  ashes  as  soon  as  the  conqueror's 
back  is  turned,  boldly  crossing  the  frontier,  savagely 
plundering  and  harassing  by  way  of  filling  up  the  in 
terval.  And  so  it  goes  between  the  Franks  and  the  Saxons 
for  thirty  years,  until — the  temple  razed,  the  Irminsul 
taken,  four  thousand  Saxons  butchered  like  sheep  in  a  pen 
in  one  day  by  way  of  example — might  makes  the  right,  and 
the  Saxons  surrender.  These  things  put  age  and  discretion 
into  even  barbarian  hearts.  What  can  they  do  else  ? 
Voltaire  says  :  "  Their  gods  were  destroyed,  their  priests 
murdered  amid  the  ruins  of  their  idols.  The  unhappy 
people  were  converted  with  sabre  cuts,  and  lo  !  they  become 
Christians  and — slaves  !' '  As  to  the  first  item  in  Voltaire's 
sarcastic  conclusion  we  know  something  about  that  sort  of 
Christianity,  and  the  less  said  of  it  the  better.  They  were 


122        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

baptized,  these  Saxons,  even  "Witikind  himself — their  sec 
ond  Arminius,  according  to  Hallam — laying  down  his  arms 
and  suffering  the  rite.  .  But  we  of  to-day  know  how  much 
these  Saxons  became  slaves.  We  know  how  they  spilled 
over,  in  that  their  first  panic,  by  no  means  wholly  into 
France ;  how  they  fled  north  to  become  vikings  and 
pirates  ;  how  they  fled  west  across  the  water,  pushing  the 
Britons  aside,  mixing  with  the  ^Normans,  to  make  the  Eng 
lish  of  to-day.  But  doubtless  the  Kaiser  Karl  thought  he 
had  absorbed  the  barbarous  Saxon  into  Christian  Frank  for 
ever,  setting  the  fashion  for  those  unsuspected  Saxons  of 
to-day  who  follow  so  religiously  his  pious  policy. 

The  Saxons  being  disposed  of,  the  dark  and  terrible 
Huns  come  next,  remnants  of  Attila's  Avars,  swarming 
in  from  the  east,  centuries  before.  Into  their  dense  jungles 
must  this  restless  monarch  next  plunge,  and  with  his 
usual  fortune.  Their  settlements — called  rings,  circular 
inclosures  of  wooden  buildings — are  invaded  and  destroyed. 
And,  true  to  his  gospel,  Karl  gives  them  peace  and  good 
will  by  the  sacrifice  of  their  idols  and  temples,  and  the  sub 
stitution  of  his  own.  Their  national  idol  was  a  naked  sword, 
symbolic  of  their  deity,  the  sword-god  ;  this  these  terrible 
Huns  of  Attila,  now  cowed  and  craven,  must  break  in  the 
presence  of  their  conqueror,  and  they  must  come  thereafter 
to  the  holy  baptism  of  the  Christians  ! 

Surely  a  wonderful  vitality  somewhere  is  in  this  baptism  ! 
Three  centuries  before,  it  was  a  sight  to  remember  when 
Clovis,  with  his  Franks,  bowed  in  the  Cathedral  of  Rheims 
before  the  cross  they  had  but  lately  burnt,  and  received  the 
name  of  Christian.  Then  we  beheld  infant  France  before 
its  sponsor,  Rome.  Now  here  stands  our  Christian  Karl, 


CHARLEMAGNE.  123 

himself  sponsor  to  this  Saxon  leader  Witikind,  signing 
these  fair-haired  Saxons — these  dark-browed  Huns — with 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  dropping  upon  each  Christian  bap 
tism  ! 

We  have  noticed  that  this  great  Karl  ran  down  to  Rome 
to  visit  his  friend  Hadrian,  while  his  Franks  were  stand 
ing  with  drawn  swords  before  Pavia.  And  Karl  got  quite 
in  the  way  of  running  to  Home,  until  finally  he  made 
a  most  notable  visit  there,  which  must  be  enrolled  also 
among  his  notable  deeds  ;  for  premeditated  deed  undoubt 
edly  it  was  of  Karl's,  though  coming  about  apparently  as 
the  pleasantest  surprise.  In  the  year  800  this  visit  took 
place.  Four  odd  centuries  since  the  sack  of  Rome  by 
Alaric  the  Goth.  Three  odd  centuries  since  Clovis  set  up 
the  new  Empire  of  France,  and  swelled  with  exultation 
over  Roman  plaudits  in  the  streets  of  Tours.  Christmas 
day  in  the  year  800  was  a  day  momentous  to  the  ages  ;  a  day 
of  wedding  and  of  funeral — wedding  of  one  named  Italy 
to  one  called  France  ;  burial  of  one  named  Rome,  finally 
and  forever.  And  priest  for  both  is  Charlemagne,  his 
head  anointed  with  the  royal  unction,  his  person  clad  in 
the  imperial  purple,  while  Leo  crowns,  and  all  the  Romans 
shout,  "  Long  life  to  Charles  !  Most  pious  Augustus  1 
crowned,  by  the  grace  of  God,  the  great  and  pacific  Em 
peror  of  the  Romans  !" 

This  was  one  of  the  deeds  of  Karl,  and  rather  the  most 
notable  thing  a  man  has  achieved  or  can  achieve  ;  enough 
to  raise  the  ghost  of  Julius  Caesar  from  the  purple  dust  it 
lay  in.  For  in  this  ceremony  the  seal  was  set  upon  the 
political  power  of  Rome.  The  old  order  vanished  and 
gave  place  to  new.  Henceforth  in  place  of  Caesars,  popes 


124       GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETJBY,  AND  OTHEB  STUDIES. 

shall  represent  the  Deity,  and  priests  crowd  out  patricians. 
Here,  then,  is  Carol  us  Magnus,  in  the  year  800  of  out 
Lord,  Emperor  of  France,  Germany,  Italy,  and  Hungary  — 
and  all  this  is  France  /—made  from  a  strip  of  Rhine  ri  ver 
bank  and  five  thousand  barbarians  led  by  Clovis  into  Gaul, 
in  the  fifth  century  of  our  era  ;  there  to  stop  and  rest  three 
hundred  years  :  then  to  swell  and  swiftly  break  over  every 
boundary  on  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south,  because  of 
Karl,  the  son  of  the  mayor,  a  man  too  big  for  Gaul ;  and  so  to 
grow  into  that  tremendous  kingdom  which  included  what 
to-day  is  Prussia,  save  a  bit  east  of  the  Vistula,  perhaps  ; 
Austria  this  western  side  the  Danube  ;  and  all  between  this 
river  line  and  the  Ebro. 

"  No  Pyrenees"  then,  O  grand  monarque,  though  your 
grandson  failed  to  hew  them  down  !  No  Rhine  river 
then,  O  Kaiser  Wilhelm,  though  your  Prussia  lies  one 
side  to-day  !  That  was  a  kingdom  worth  Napoleon's 
dreams.  France  !  the  centre  of  the  world,  the  focus  of 
all  brightness  in  those  dusky  times  of  the  west.  Rome 
came  to  school  to  Paris  then,  and  even  haughty  literary 
Bagdad  acknowledged  its  acquaintance.  Constantinople, 
too,  shook  hands  with  Karl,  but  warily,  and  taught  a  sig 
nificant  motto  to  its  people,  which  ran  thus  :  u  Be  friends 
with  the  Franks,  but  be  not  neighbors  !" 


III. 

"We  have,  by  this  time,  a  hint  of  what  Karl  did  in  the 
line  of  conquest.  But  other  deeds  remain  whose  color 
is  not  red.  Go  to  the  secretary  and  hear  him  tell  of 


CHARLEMAGNE.  125 

Karl 'a  minsters,  and  his  monasteries,  and  his  schools  ;  of 
the  masters  he  imported.  Look  at  his  laws,  those  famous 
Capitularies.  Of  them  Montesquieu  says,  in  his  "Esprit 
des  Lois  :"  "In  Charlemagne's  laws  we  see  a  vision  which 
commands  the  view  of  all,  and  a  wisdom  which  provides 
for  all.  .  .  .  The  father  of  a  family  could  learn  from  him 
rules  for  the  regulation  of  his  household.  .  .  .  He  arranged 
for  the  sale  of  the  eggs  from  his  farm — the  same  prince 
who  divided  among  his  people  the  incalculable  treasure  of 
the  Huns  who  had  plundered  the  world." 

Of  Charlemagne's  learning  we  have  spoken.  Its  limit 
seems  to  have  been  in  the  exhaustion  of  means  of  learning, 
and  not  at  all  in  himself.  His  worshippers  claim  for  him 
varied  and  voluminous  authorship  as  well.  Of  this  we  have 
our  doubts,  though  why  Karl  should  not  have  "  written" 
as  well  as  wrought,  we  do  not  know.  He  was  not  the  man 
to  be  behind  the  dead  Caesar,  whose  place  he  filled.  If  he 
wrote  the  epitaph  upon  Adrian's  tomb  he  could  certainly 
have  written  well,  if  at  all.  Wherever  the  merit  of  its  liter 
ary  composition  lies,  it  is  certain  the  sentiment  it  embodies 
was,  as  Gibbon  observes,  due  the  warm-hearted  monarch. 
Here  is  a  sample,  which  I  translate  from  a  German  copy — 
Charlemagne's  epitaph  on  the  tomb  of  Adrian  : 

"  Here  I,  Karl,  engrave,  while  tears  are  swiftly  thronging, 

Thy  epitaph,  O  sweetest  heart,  father  for  whom  I  weep  ! 
Linger  in  my  thought,  O  friend,  while  memory  quiets  longing  ! 
Christ,  the  King  of  Heaven,  henceforth  forever  thee  shall  keep. 
*  »  *  *   •  #  *  « 

*"  Here  onr  names  united  shall  find  no  separation. 

Karol,  King— Hadrianus,  Pope— but  briefly  called  to  part  I 
Ye  who  weeping  look  hereon,  offer  this  supplication, 

'  Merciful  God,  receive  these  two  to  Thine  all-healing  Heart  1 '  " 


126       GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

Well,  Carolus  Magnus,  Emperor  of  Franks  and  Romans, 
conqueror  of  Spain,  Saxony,  Hungary,  Lombardy,  etc., 
improver  of  the  empire,  founder  of  literature,  architecture, 
science  in  Europe  of  the  Middle  Ages,  finally  encountered 
a  greater  king  than  himself,  and  with  little  parley  surren 
dered  unconditionally.  He  died,  and  his  body  was  laid  in 
one  of  his  famous  minsters,  and  over  his  tomb  was  built 
an  arch  upon  which  his  likeness  and  an  inscription  were 
engraved.  The  inscription  certifies  :  "  Here  lies  the  body 
of  Karl,  the  great  and  right  worthy  emperor,  the  illustrious 
improver  of  the  empire,  who  reigned  forty-seven  years 
long,"  etc.  Then  the  secretary  goes  on  naively  to  tell  of 
the  wonders  which  ensued.  For  three  years  after  Karl's 
death  there  were  marvellous  signs  in  the  heavens.  For  a 
long  time  there  was  a  black  spot  upon  the  sun.  All  this 
is  recorded  with  the  same  simplicity  which  characterizes 
the  entire  biography.  No  doubt  it  is  fitting  that  the  order 
of  nature  should  be  disturbed  when  Le  Roi  est  mart ! 

It  is  dear  to  the  historical  heart  to  talk  of  the  hour  and 
the  man,  as  making  the  most  marvellous  connection  in  the 
most  marvellous  manner.  As  if  the  hour  was  ever  wanting 
to  the  man,  or  the  man  to  the  hour  ! 

The  hour  had  struck  for  Charlemagne,  and  Charlemagne 
appeared — appeared  to  do  the  duty  of  the  hour,  to  weld 
out  of  conflicting  races  the  integral  nation,  which  should  be 
the  Joshua  of  the  new  civilization.  On  the  south  lay 
Rome,  sick  unto  death,  yet  grasping,  with  what  grasp  re 
mained  to  that  moribund  old  age,  for  the  empire.  The 
world  had  too  long  obeyed  her  mandates  to  easily  shake  off 
the  habit  of  obedience,  and  an  echo  of  other  days  still  whis 
pered  in  her  feebly-voiced  exactions.  The  divine  right  of 


CHARLEMAGNE.  127 

« 

Rome  had  grown  to  be  a  superstition  with  the  world,  and 
'it  needed  a  nerveful  young  master  to  rouse  it  from  such  a 
nightmare.  On  the  west  stood  Spain,  with  her  Saracens 
massed  against  Gibraltar,  beaten  back  but  not  destroyed  by 
the  hammer  of  the  first  Karl,  waiting,  watching  their  chance 
to  pounce  upon  these  fair  Franks,  to  transform  monasteries 
into  mosques,  and  chain  the  Koran  to  the  altar  where  the 
Bible  lay. 

On  the  east  the  black  fojests  cast  shadows  perilous  to  the 
empire  of  Clovis.  Swarthy  savages,  thicker  than  the  forest 
leaves,  watched  in  their  lair  the  moment  of  the  spring, 
when  they  might  offer  to  their  sword-god  the  sweet  sacri 
fice  of  Frankish  blood.  Had  that  moment  come  ere  Karl 
came  to  match  it,  the  new  civilization  must  have  been 
retarded  by  another  Middle  Ages.  Swarming  over  on  all 
sides,  they  would  have  pushed  east  and  west,  annihilating, 
like  the  deluge,  every  former  thing. 

Across  the  forests  shone  the  diadem  of  Constantinople. 
Corrupted  with  all  manner  of  alien  blood,  the  Eastern 
Empire  had  small  virtue  to  keep  sweet  the  world.  And 
from  the  sunrise  land  the  domes  of  Bagdad  sent  a  men 
acing  gleam.  Plenty  of  claimants  for  the  place  of  Rome 
were  watching  and  planning  for  their  hour.  Had  now  the 
Carlo vingian  first  monarch  been  such  as  was  the  Merovin 
gian  last — had  a  weak  and  silly  Childeric  arisen  to  fill  the 
place  of  Pepin  Bref,  it  needs  no  prophet's  eye  to  discern 
what  must  have  been  ;  with  warring  competitors  within 
and  crowding  combatants  without,  France  must  have  yielded 
to  their  combined  blows  and  sunk  beneath  them.  And 
what  then  ? 

The  seers  must  tell  what  then  ;  but  it  needs  no  seer  to 


128       GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

tell  what  not  then.  Not  in  this  ninth  century  of  our  Chris 
tian  era,  Lombard y  alchemized  into  Italy  and  put  beneath 
the  feet  of  a  strong  master,  in  whose  veins  flowed  neither 
the  degenerate  blood  of  Greece  nor  the  diseased  blood  of 
Rome  ;  not  Csesar  stamped  out  of  the  politics  of  the  world  ; 
Mahomet  turned  faceward  to  Bagdad  ;  Saxon  exiled  from 
the  mainland  and  sent  flying  across  the  British  Channel,  and 
there,  wedding  with  his  conquerors,  in  due  time  producing 
the  English  of  to-day ;  not  Hun  and  Avar  put  in  appren 
ticeship  to  the  civilizer.  All  this,  but  for  the  monarch  in 
whom  the  man  met  and  matched  the  hour,  could  not 
have  been.  Setting  aside  all  romance  of  the  Kaiser  Karl, 
all  story  of  paladins,  Ogier  or  Roland,  eschewing  all  lovely 
legend,  we  may  indorse,  in  sober  light  of  historic  verity, 
what  La  Motte  Fouque  says  of  Charlemagne  :  "  In  him 
was  new  Europe  for  the  first  time  one.  .  .  .  He  is  the 
father  and  creator  of  the  German  era  !" 

"We  have  taken  a  far  from  comprehensive  view  of  the 
life,  private  and  public,  of  one  of  the  most  conspicuous 
figures  in  human  history.  Of  the  times  upon  -which  this 
life  fell  we  have  given  but  a  hint.  Curiosity  concerning 
Charlemagne  will  never  die  out,  and  in  proportion  as  his 
true  figure  emerges  from  the  mass  of  exaggerating  fiction 
and  idealization  which  has  surrounded  it,  it  will  attract  a 
deeper  and  more  genuine  interest.  Around  him  centres 
whatever  is  vital  or  worthy  in  the  darkest  and  most 
chaotic  epoch  of  modern  times,  and  in  him  is  illustrated,  as 
perhaps  in  no  other  individual  man,  gigantic  opportunity 
meeting  gigantic  ability  to  mould  the  character  of  his  own 
and  succeeding  ages. 

The  author  of  "  Undine,"  whose  skill  has  found  no  worthy 


CHARLEMAGNE.  129 

compeer  in  certain  delicate  analytics,  save  Hawthorne,  says 
again  :  "  Whoever  comes  to  compare  Karl  with  any  other 
monarch  must  not  forget  that  outer  deeds  and  their  conse 
quences  do  not  reveal  the  inner  being  nor  the  essence  of 
individuality."  This  is  true  only  because  of  the  limitations 
of  the  observer,  and  not  because  the  phenomena  of  deed 
and  life,  as  revealed  by  authentic  history,  could  not  show, 
were  the  observer  sufficiently  skilled  and  sensitive,  the 
source  of  both,  and  the  essence  of  character. 

For  my  own  part,  I  perceive  Charlemagne  to  be  a  man 
of  genius,  whose  necessity  it  was  to  meddle  with  all  things 
at  hand,  and  to  bring  to  hand  things  remote,  and  whose 
good  gift  it  was  to  have  such  a  position  in  the  world  as  gave 
to  this  necessity  the  largest  scope.  It  is  good  to  look  upon 
this  joyous,  mighty  man  ;  good  to  view  his  life  ;  good  to 
see  him,  struck  with  dealli,  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  and 
commend  his  spirit  to  his  Lord  ;  good  to  mark  the  ripples 
which  his  advent  sent  circling  down  the  sea  of  time,  and 
which  widen  forevermore. 


THE  MONASTERY. 


THE  MONASTERY. 

SOCIETY  had  two  aristocracies  in  the  Middle  Ages  :  the 
one  of  the  'State,  the  other  of  the  Church.  The  former 
took  form  and  front  in  the  institution  of  chivalry  ;  the  latter 
in  that  of  the  monastery. 

The  haughty  chevalier,  with  lofty  helmet  and  waving 
plume,  with  broidered  doublet  and  jewelled  girdle,  with 
graceful  cloak  and  burnished  armor  ;  mounted  upon  his 
plunging  steed,  richly  trapped  with  costly  harness,  attended 
by  obsequious  squire  and  servile  suite — here  was  our  lord 
of  society,  the  bulwark  and  ornament  of  the  State. 

The  humble  monk,  with  bowed  head  enveloped  in  sombre 
cowl,  his  scanty  gown  dyed  and  stiffened  by  reason  of  his 
abstinence  from  the  sinful  luxury  of  ablution  ;  his  body 
girt  with  a  heavy  rope,  by  way  of  showing  that  the  beast 
was  well  in  hand  ;  his  flesh  gashed  with  self-inflicted 
wounds  and  creased  with  ponderous  chains  and  iron  collars, 
to  further  signify  its  subjection  ;  his  feet  bare  and  bleeding 
with  the  stones  and  briers  of  untrodden  ways  ;  perched 
upon  some  all  but  inaccessible  rock,  or  buried  in  some  cave 
usurped  from  wild- beast  owner,  or  wandering  upon  the 
burning  sands  of  some  desert — here  was  another  and  superior 
lord  of  society,  the  bulwark  and  ornament  of  the  Church. 
To  these  monastic  aristocrats  even  royalty  itself  bowed  in 
lowliest  deference.  Gibbon  says  :  "  Prosperity  and  peace 


134          GEOKGE   ELIOT'S   POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

introduced  the  distinction  of  the  vulgar  and  ascetic  Chris. 
tian." 

In  the  mediaeval  estimate,  the  highest-born  noble,  so  long 
as  he  lived  in  the  world  and  was  engaged  in  its  affairs,  was 
the  inferior  of  the  monk,  who,  however  obscure  of  birth  or 
low  in  poverty,  by  virtue  of  his  secession  from  the  ranks 
of  humanity,  and  his  renunciation  of  all  human  ties  and 
property,  was  a  member  of  a  superior  aristocracy.  The 
monastery,  with  its  primitive  lowliness,  reared  a  loftier  head 
than  did  the  feudal  castle. 


I. 

A  body  of  men  or  women,  never  men  and  women, 
congregated  and  segregated,  bound  together  by  voluntary 
obedience  to  a  set  of  rules  involving  renunciation  of  the 
world,  with  all  that  intimates  of  sacrifice  ;  vowing  to  pov 
erty  and  solitude  their  mortal  allegiance  ;  subjecting  them 
selves  to  the  direst  extremities  of  exposure,  hunger,  and 
fatigue  ;  inflicting  upon  themselves  all  but  intolerable 
torture  to  flesh  and  nerve  ;  seeking  to  expiate  former  utter 
ance  by  present  speechlessness,  former  action  by  present 
lethargy  ;  striving  toward  actual  paralysis  of  all  faculties 
which  can  connect  the  individual  with  the  society  ;  a  shadow 
of  a  living  being  amid  shadows — this  was  monkhood.  A 
crowd  of  devotees,  herded  loosely  but  permanently  together, 
was  the  embryo  monastery. 

Antony  of  Egypt,  in  the  third  century,  is  doubtless  the 
founder  of  the  Christian  monastery.  This  man  in  early  life 
abandoned  family  and  home,  property  and  all  social  ties, 


THE   MONASTERY.  135 

and  wandered  away  from  the  cities  of  the  living  into  a  city 
of  the  dead,  a  region  of  tombs,  a  place  of  stone-covered 
caves  filled  with  bones  and  the  dust  of  human  skeletons. 
In  this  sepulchral  solitude  he  found  a  sphere  congenial  to 
his  penitential  purpose,  and  here  he  served  out  his  self- 
appointed  time  of  penance,  wounding  and  torturing  his 
despised  body  that  he  might  rescue  his  soul  from  its  thral 
dom.  At  the  termination  of  this  ascetic  novitiate,  he 
struck  into  the  wilderness,  a  three-days'  journey,  halting  at 
an  isolated  rock  which  seemed  suitably  remote  and  barren, 
and  this  he  chose  for  his  mortal  residence  and  place  of 
purgatory.  But  his  solitude  was  destined  to  be  broken. 
There  were  other  men  in  Egypt,  in  those  days,  who  were 
bewildered  and  in  despair,  in  doubt  of  present  and  future, 
ready  to  practise  any  device  by  which  to  lose  the  sense  of 
impending  doom,  to  flee  present  persecution,  to  secure 
future  salvation  ;  multitudes  then,  as  now,  ready  to  follow 
if  not  to  lead.  When,  therefore,  it  was  known  that 
Antony,  the  man,  the  neighbor,  the  Egyptian,  had  con 
ceived  such  a  plan,  there  were  plenty  to  rush  headlong  in 
his  footsteps  ;  and  Antony,  from  being  the  hermit  of  the 
rock,  became  the  abbot  of  the  plain  ;  and  the  sands  of  that 
Libyan  desert,  in  the  third  century,  became,  before  the 
dawn  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the  arena  of  the  first  Christian 
monastery,  ruins  of  which,  according  to  Gibbon,  may  be 
seen  to  this  day. 

Antony  lived  one  hundred  and  five  years,  and  in  that 
centuried  lifetime  he  saw,  as  it  has  been  the  lot  of  few 
pioneers  to  see,  his  theory  and  practice  propagated  to  a 
wonderful  extent.  Pachoinius,  his  pupil  and  successor, 
was  superior  over  seven  thousand  monks.  Athanasius 


136        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

visited  Antony,  caught  his  spirit,  and  carried  the  plan  of 
monastic  life  to  yet  imperial  Rome,  where  it  ran  rapidly 
the  race  of  being  "  first  endured,  then  pitied,  then  em 
braced."  Martin  of  Tours,  the  bishop  and  soldier  of  the 
Franks,  propagated  the  monastic  institution  in  Gaul,  and 
two  thousand  monks  followed  his  body  to  the  tomb — that 
body  which  in  dust  and  ashes  was  still  so  potent  to  work 
miracles.  Thence  the  fire  leaped  across  the  waters,  and  the 
tiny  island  of  lona,  that  Ultima  Thule  of  the  western  world, 
caught  the  holy  flame,  and  reflected  back  to  Cyprus  in  the 
east  an  incendiary  ray.  Thus  east  and  west,  north  and 
south,  the  flames  of  monasticism  flew.  And  at  the  thresh 
old  of  the  Middle  Ages  we  find  the  ground  farrowed  and 
sown  with  the  seeds  of  that  stupendous  growth  which,  in 
the  shape  of  the  monastery,  was  to  ripen  through  the 
season  of  a  thousand  years,  tares  and  wheat,  wheat  and 
tares,  growing  together  to  the  harvest. 

In  the  sixth  century  came  Benedict  the  Italian  to  weed 
and  cultivate  the  sprouting  crop  of  Antony's  sowing.  The 
Egyptian  recluse  had  flung  the  seed,  with  careless  hand, 
hither  and  thither,  without  order  or  precision.  Where  it 
fell  there  it  lodged,  and  everywhere  it  sprouted  ;  but  in 
wild  confusion.  Everywhere  was  to  be  found  the  monastic 
spirit,  the  monastic  profession,  the  monastic  practice.  Here, 
as  always,  was  needed  the  perfecter  of  the  plan,  who  must 
follow  the  pioneer. 

"We  do  not  see  in  Antony  any  hint  of  a  dream  in  his  own 
mind  that  he  was  the  originator  of  a  spiritual  aristocracy. 
He  had  in  view  the  salvation  of  the  individual  merely,  and 
that  individual  principally  the  individual  Antony.  He  fled 
from  the  things  of  time  and  sense  to  save  his  own  soul  alive, 


THE    MONASTERY.  137 

and  if  the  soul  of  his  brother  also,  so  much  the  better.  But 
we  have  no  justification  in  history  for  ascribing  to  him  wider 
or  more  ambitious  hopes. 

At  the  epoch  of  the  sixth  century  the  times  were  no 
longer  the  times  of  Antony.  Already  the  Bishop  of  Rome 
had  become  Pope,  and  the  policy  of  propagation  had  set 
in,  and  was  giving  incipient  direction  to  religious  thought 
and  activity.  Antony  stood  alone  ;  but  in  Benedict's  day 
we  see  coalition  ;  already  all  things  are  done  as  means  to  an 
end,  and  that  end  the  salvation  of  the  individual  with  the 
establishment  of  the  Church  of  Rome,  as  sine  qua  non. 

Benedict  was  not  more  a  monk  than  a  missionary,  and 
not  so  much  either  as  a  reformer.  Dante  gives  him  a  high 
place  in  Paradise,  and  makes  him 

"...  the  largest  and  most  luculent" 

among  the  pearls  which  floated  into  sight  and  sound,  as 
lie  inspected  those  ghostly  circles.  Benedict,  like  Antony, 
refused  to  grapple  with  the  problem  of  being  in  the  world 
yet  not  of  it.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  the  profligacy  of 
Roman  school -boys  repelled  him,  and  he  fled  from  their 
company  into  the  solitudes  of  nature.  Here  a  monk  gave 
him  a  dress  of  his  order,  and  pointed  out  to  him  a  cave  in 
which  to  meditate  and  do  penance,  and  here  he  lived  three 
years,  receiving  his  necessary  food  from  the  patron  monk, 
who  let  it  down  to  him  in  his  cave  by  a  cord.  But,  like 
Antony,  he  was  not  suffered  to  remain  in  his  cave  undis 
turbed.  The  shepherds  of  the  region  found  him  out,  and 
the  monks  of  the  vicinity  chose  him  for  their  abbot.  The 
fact  that,  having  placed  him  in  this  position,  those  monks 


138       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

endeavored  to  poison  him  thereupon,  is  a  fact  rich  in  com 
mentary  on  the  character  that  monkhood  had  already 
attained.  Montalembert  says  ("Monks  of  the  West"): 
"  Benedict  had  the  ordinary  fate  of  great  men  and  saints. 
The  great  number  of  conversions  worked  by  the  example 
and  fame  of  his  austerities  awakened  a  homicidal  envy 
against  him."  Yet  Benedict  lived  and  did  his  work — and 
a  great  work  for  those  days.  He  formulated  rules  for  the 
regulation  of  monastic  life  which  became  "  eventually  the 
rule  of  all  western  monachism."  He  grappled  with  a 
lingering  paganism,  arid  on  the  ruins  of  a  temple  to 
Apollo,  still  in  the  sixth  century  the  centre  of  the  devo 
tions  of  a  pagan  peasantry,  he  founded  his  famous  Mon 
astery  of  Monte  Cassino  ;  and  here,  standing  and  with 
arms  outstretched  in  prayer,  in  articulo  mortis,  he  died. 
From  this  epoch  the  monastery  acquires  organic  solidity  and 
definite  dignity.  In  the  great  Benedictine  order  we  find 
the  beginnings  of  systematic  devotion  and  the  germ  of  a 
more  intellectual  life.  Of  the  works  of  the  Benedictines, 
Sir  Walter  Scott  says  they  are  "  of  general  and  perma 
nent  advantage  to  the  world  at  large,  showing  that  the 
revenues  of  the  Benedictines  were  not  always  spent  in  self- 
indulgence,  and  that  the  members  of  that  order  did  not 
uniformly  slumber  in  sloth  and  indolence."  "  The  order 
increased  so  rapidly  that  the  Benedictines  must  be  regarded 
as  the  main  agents  in  the  spread  of  Christianity,  civilization, 
and  learning  in  the  west"  (Chambers' s  Encyclopaedia). 

Here,  then,  we  find  the  monastery  full-grown.  The 
monks  are  no  longer  hermits,  but  students  and  propagan 
dists. 

Did  a  man  covet  the  career  of  the  monk  and  the  glory 


THE    MONASTERY.  139 

of  monastic  life  ?  He  must  first  totally  surrender  every 
tie  and  renounce  all.  Then  he  must  stand  for  several 
(  days  at  the  monastery  door  and  receive  the  affronts  of  the 
porter,  by  way  of  testing  his  ascetic  fortitude.  Tin's  pre 
liminary  being  satisfactorily  passed,  he  is  conducted  into 
the  reception-room  of  the  monastery,  and  some  superior 
monk  initiates  him  into  the  rules  of  monastic  life.  Among 
these  is  implicit  obedience  to  his  superior,  which  one  of 
the  fathers  calls  the  monk's  first  virtue.  He  is  to  shun 
laughter,  to  hold  no  private  property,  to  live  sparely,  to 
exercise  hospitality,  and,  above  all,  to  be  industrious.  He 
is  given  a  long  black  gown,  with  a  cowl  or  hood  of  the  same, 
and  a  scapulary.  After  a  novitiate  of  one  year  he  becomes, 
by  solemn  ceremonies,  a  monk  in  full.  His  life  is  now 
one  of  unvarying  routine,  tedious  or  the  contrary,  according 
to  the  wealth  or  poverty  of  his  own  individuality,  for  this, 
however  suppressed,  must  follow  him  within  his  cloister, 
whether  he  will  or  no.  His  conditions  are  now  remarkably 
ill-calculated  to  make  his  mind  his  kingdom,  for  it  must  be 
in  defiance  of  his  vows,  if  he  gets  any  intellectual  stimu 
lus.  His  obligation  of  eternal  poverty  prevents  all  acquisi 
tion.  He  can  call  nothing  his  own.  Such  expressions 
were  severely  punished.  The  rule  of  Columbanus — who 
came  after  Benedict — inflicted  six  lashes  for  any  lapsiw 
lingum  in  which  the  possessive  pronoun  "  my"  slipped  out. 
The  vow  of  implicit  obedience  in  its  full  performance 
surrendered  intellect  and  conscience  at  once  into  the  hand 
of  the  abbot.  The  same  Columbanus,  who  was  an  Irish 
monk  and  a  fair  competitor  for  honor  with  Benedict  in 
missionary  zeal,  lays  down  one  of  his  rules  thus  :  "  Any 
monk  who  signs  not  the  spoon  with  which  he  eats  with  the 


140        GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

sign  of  the  cross,  or  who  strikes  the  table  with  his  knife, 
or  who  coughs  at  the  beginning  of  a  psalm,  shal]  receive  six 
lashes."  In  Maitland's  "  Dark  Ages"  we  have  quoted  an 
instance  of  a  monk  who,  pronouncing  the  Latin  verb  to 
teach,  docere,  was  bidden  by  the  Abbot  to  say  docere  ;  the 
ignorant  abbot  was  obeyed,  and  we  do  not  learn  that  the 
monk  had  the  contumacy  of  Galileo,  or  that  he  muttered  any 
accented  penult  in  an  undertone.  This  obedient  monk 
was  Lanfranc,  afterward  Archbishop  of  Canterbury. 


II. 


When  we  come  to  consider  the  causes  from  which  the 
monastery  arose,  we  shall  find  that  they  are  not  the  mo 
nopoly  of  the  Middle  Ages,  nor  the  special  property  of 
Christianity.  The  monastic  spirit  is  inherent  in  man,  and 
has  found  rare  and  isolated  development  in  every  age. 
If  asceticism  be  a  disease,  yet  it  must  be  ranked  among 
those  diseases  the  seeds  of  which  are  born  with  us,  and 
are  called,  whether  scientifically  or  not,  natural  diseases. 
If  we  grant  that  the  monastery  is  a  monstrosity,  we  must 
admit  also  that  the  monstrous  is  everywhere  possible,  and 
own,  with  Goethe,  "  that  it  is  in  her  monstrosities  that 
nature  reveals  to  us  her  secrets." 

The  idea  which  lies  at  the  bottom,  as  corner-stone  of  the 
monastery,  may  be  developed,  on  occasion,  from  any  indi 
vidual  of  the  race.  There  is  the  making  of  a  monk  in 
every  man. 

What,  then,  was  the  occasion  from  which,  in  the  Middle 


THE   MONASTERY. 

Ages,  the  monastic  spirit  found  so  gigantic  and  dispropor- 
tioned  a  development  as  to  make  that  time  seem  to  have 
almost  the  monopoly  of  the  monastery  ? 

The  occasion  is  on  the  surface.  It  is  the  Middle  Ages 
itself — the  times.  Given  a  man  with  scrofula  in  his  blood, 
and  yet  so  arrange  his  environment  that  his  tendencies  may 
find  no  occasion  for  development ;  give  him  climate,  occu 
pation,  food — all  that  tends  to  suppression  of  the  humor, 
and  it  may  never  break  out.  He  may  never,  except  from 
say  so,  know  he  has  it.  Let  the  opposite  conditions  be 
provided  ;  let  the  occasion  be  offered,  and  he  will  soon 
discover,  by  its  dire  development,  the  inherent  poison  in 
his  system.  The  scrofula  of  monasticism  boiled  in  the  blood 
of  mediaeval  men,  and  the  times  afforded  just  those  condi 
tions  which  most  favored  its  outbreak. 

The  times  !  Never  were  such  times.  Humanity  poised, 
as  it  were,  between  the  receding  old  and  the  advancing 
new.  Babylon  fallen,  but  the  captivity  not  ended.  The 
world  torn  by  two  mighty  winds  from  opposite  quarters, 
one  bringing  thunders  of  regeneration  and  lightnings  of 
regeneration  from  the  west,  the  other  emptying  vials  of 
vnith  from  the  long  tyranny  of  cloud-hung,  rain-curtained 
east.  It  was  the  unsettling  of  all  things.  The  fall  of 
Home  had  filled  the  world  with  the  fragments  of  shattered 
things,  the  rising  Germanic  Empire  had  covered  all  with  a 
pall  of  blood.  Pagan  temples  lay  prostrate,  but  the  debris 
•was  not  cleared  away,  and  the  Christian  Basilica  struggled  i 
up  slowly,  wrapped  in  a  mist  of  the  legend  and  fable  of  the 
old  idolatries.  In  these  times  of  confusion  men  stood  con 
fused.  Their  limbs  trembled  beneath  them  ;  their  hearts 
throbbed  with  apprehension  ;  their  intellects  failed  them  ; 


14:2       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

only  the  suffering,  affrighted  soul  within  them  hungered 
and  aspired  toward  salvation.  It  was  a  time  of  panic — a 
time  for  men  to  rush,  blind  with  fear  and  faith,  through 
any  door  swung  open  before  them  which  promised  escape. 
Here,  then,  was  the  moment  for  the  monastery.  Its  door 
swung  open  before  panic-pursued  multitudes,  and  tides  of 
humanity  swept  over  its  portal  out  of  the  world. 

For  the  thing  was  to  get  out  of  the  world  before  the 
world  got  out  itself.  It  was  everywhere  believed  that  the 
end  of  the  world  was  near.  The  Church  fathers  taught 
and  preached  it.  It  was  looming  up,  ever  coming,  and 
coming  soon.  And  the  influence  of  this  belief  contributed 
largely  to  the  success  of  monastic  propagation.  Gregory  L, 
as  late  as  the  sixth  century,  wrote  to  Ethelred  in  Briton 
that  the  end  of  the  world  was  coming.  What  could  it 
signify,  then,  how  things  went  on  in  a  world  which  was 
about  to  burn  up  ?  Material  interests  and  possessions  slip 
ped  easily  from  the  grasp  when  the  end  of  all  things  was 
so  near  at  hand. 

The  mediaeval  man  was  a  simple  creature  compared  to 
our  complex  modern.  In  that  great  twilight  space,  out  of 
which  at  any  moment  was  to  burst  the  fires  of  the  last  con 
flagration,  there  stood  to  his  conception  two  ideas,  and  only 
two  of  much  importance — his  Flesh  and  his  Spirit.  My  body 
and  my  soul — these  made  up  the  mediaeval  ego.  Very  dis 
tinct  and  wholly  antipodal  ;  the  one  from  above,  the  other 
from  beneath,  and  between  these  two  a  great  gulf  fixed. 
Even  so  large  arid  tender  a  genius  as  Gregory  Nazianzen 
expresses  this  sentiment  constantly  in  his  poems,  notably  in 
"  Soul  and  Body,"  which  is  thus  translated  by  Mrs.  Brown 
ing.  To  his  soul,  he  says  : 


THE   MONASTERY.  143 

"  What  wilt  thou  possess  or  be  ? 

•Oh,  my  soul,  I  ask  of  thee. 

What  of  great  or  what  of  small 

Counted  precious  therewithal  ? 

Be  it  only  rare  and  want  it, 

I  am  ready,  Soul,  to  grant  it ! 

****** 
"...  what  wilt  thou  be, 

Oh,  my  soul  ?  a  deity  ? 

A  god  before  the  face  of  God, 

Standing  glorious  in  His  glories, 

Choral  in  His  angels'  chorus  ? 

****** 
"  Go  !  upon  thy  wing  arise. 

Plumed  by  quick  energies, 

Mount  in  circles  up  the  skies  ; 

And  I  will  bless  thy  winged  passion, 

Help,  with  words,  thine  exaltation, 

And,  like  bird  of  rapid  feather, 

Outlaunch  thee,  Soul,  upon  the  ether." 


But  to  the  body,  Gregory,  the  poet,  speaks  thus  : 


"  But  thou,  O  fleshly  nature,  say 
Thou  with  odors  from  the  clay, 
Since  thy  presence  I  must  have, 
As  a  lady  with  a  slave. 
******* 
May  some  rocky  house  receive  thee 
Self-roofed,  to  conceal  thee  chiefly  I" 


Then  he  goes  on  to  show  what  this  beast-body  may  claim 
as  its  due — only  so  much  as  to  keep  it  as  a  tenement  of 
spirit,  alive,  and  with  such  necessaries  promises  it  a  rope 
besides,  calling  it  a  household  foe. 

That  subtle  Briareus  of  science  and  sanity,  the  Intellect, 


144          GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETRY,    AND   OTHER   STUDIES. 

which  in  these  days  stands  between  flesh  and  spirit,  and  with  a 
hundred  hands  and  voices  entreats  the  one  to  be  reconciled  to 
the  other,  was  lacking  then.  Men  were  Manichees,  and  be 
lieved  their  bodies  to  be  wholly  antagonistic  to  their  spirits. 
They  believed,  with  intense  conviction,  that  the  soul  was 
worth  saving,  and  could  be  saved  only  by  crucifixion  of  the 
flesh.  The  body  is  beast  possessed  by  devil,  whose  sole 
function  is  to  tempt  and  ruin.  The  soul  must  be  torn  from 
its  enchanter,  the  evil  wizard,  flesh.  In  these  two  ideas 
lies  the  key  to  the  gigantic  monastery  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

This  simple  man,  made  up  of  soul  and  body,  was  easily 
persuaded.  He  stood,  like  a  child  overtaken  by  a  storm  in 
the  forest,  bewildered  and  frightened,  and  ready  to  follow 
whithersoever  led.  And  his  leaders  led  him  into  the  mon 
astery.  In  the  fourth  century,  Jerome,  learned  and  wealthy, 
the  princely  father  of  the  Primitive  Church,  says  of  him 
self  :  "I  voluntarily  condemned  myself  to  this  prison  and 
exile  for  fear  of  hell,  having  no  other  company  but  scor 
pions  and  wild  beasts.  ...  I  often  joined  whole  nights  to 
the  days,  crying,  sighing,  and  beating  my  breast,  .  .  .  and, 
being  angry  and  armed  with  severity  against  myself,  I  went 
alone  into  the  most  secret  part  of  the  wilderness,  and  if  I  dis 
covered  anywhere  a  deep  valley  or  craggy  rock,  that  was  the 
place  of  my  prayer  ;  there  I  threw  this  miserable  sack  of  my 
body."  And  he  breaks  out  eloquently  in  praise  of  and  per 
suasion  to  monastic  life  thus  :  "  O  desert,  enamelled  with 
the  flowers  of  Christ  !  O  solitude,  where  those  stones  are 
built  of  which,  in  the  Apocalypse,  is  built  the  city  of 
God  !  O  retreat,  which  rejoicest  in  the  friendship  of  God  ! 
"What  doest  thou  in  the  world,  my  brother,  with  thy  soul 
greater  than  the  world  2  How  long  wilt  thou  remain  in  the 


THE   MONASTERY.  145 

shadow  of  roofs,  and  in  the  smoky  dungeons  of  cities  ?  Be 
lieve  me,  1  see  here  more  of  the  light."  Indeed,  Jerome 
was  a  prime  propagator  of  monastic  life  at  this  early  day. 
It  was  he  who  brought  into  the  folds  of  the  monastery  the 
illustrious  Roman  widow  Paula,  with  all  her  vast  wealth, 
her  daughters  included.  And  she  becomes  straightway  a 
heroine  of  the  times  and  times  after,  Jerome  eulogizing  her 
thus  :  "  If  all  the  members  of  my  body  were  changed  into 
tongues — if  all  my  limbs  resounded  with  a  human  voice,  yet 
should  I  be  incapable  of  sounding  her  praises."  Chrysos- 
tom,  "  who  in  his  preaching  so  carried  away  his  audiences 
that  they  beat  the  pavement  with  their  swords  and  called 
him  the  thirteenth  apostle,"  wrote  and  preached,  with  his 
surpassing  enthusiasm  and  eloquence,  of  the  monastic  life  as 
above  all  others.  No  other  is  comparable  to  it  ;  indeed,  he 
intimates  that  no  one  outside  of  the  monastery  is  quite  cer 
tain  of  salvation.  This  teaching  and  persuasion  continued 
all  through  the  Middle  Ages.  In  the  twelfth  century  St. 
Bernard,  called  "  Mellifluous  Doctor,"  uses  all  his  eloquence 
still  in  favor  of  monasticism.  Yaughan,  in  his  "  Hours 
with  the  Mystics,"  says  :  "  With  Bernard  the  monastic  life 
is  the  one  thing  needful.  He  began  life  by  drawing  after 
him  into  the  convent  all  his  kindred.  .  .  .  His  incessant 
cry  for  Europe  is,  '  Better  monasteries  and  more  of  them  ! ' : 
Thus  on  all  sides  we  find  persuasion  to  the  monastic  life.  No 
one  was  excluded  ;  the  soldier  might  desert  his  standard,  but 
if  he  deserted  into  the  monastery  he  incurred  no  dishonor. 
It  was  to  all  classes  an  asylum,  an  alternative  where  alone 
could  satisfaction  be  found.  To  those  whose  lives  were  well 
worn  out  in  the  pleasures  and  sins  of  the  world  it  offered 
place  for  repentance.  Pliny,  as  early  as  his  day,  describes 


146        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

the  monasteries  he  encounters  in  his  travels  as  the  abode  of 
"  a  solitary  race,  but  constantly  replenished  by  penitents 
from  the  outer  world. "  This  before  the  thick  darkness  of 
the  Middle  Ages  had  gathered.  And  when  the  darkness 
had  passed  away,  in  the  Elizabethan  age,  we  find  the  great 
Emperor  Charles  V.  abdicating  the  crown  of  Germany  and 
Spain  to  enter  a  monastery.  Of  him  Byron  says.: 

"  The  Spaniard,  when  the  lust  of  sway 

Had  lost  its  quickening  spell, 
Cast  crowns  for  rosaries  away, 
An  empire  for  a  cell." 

—  Ode  to  Napoleon. 

To  the  abjectly  poor  it  offered  betterment  in  temporal 
affairs.  None  so  low  in  life  but  he  might  rise  to  dis 
tinction  here,  had  he  the  fortitude  to  exceed  others  in 
austerity.  A  poor  shepherd  might  make  himself  immortal 
as  Charlemagne  if  he  had  invention  and  endurance  in 
making  himself  miserable.  Such  an  one  was  Simeon,  the 
ingenious  Syrian  shepherd,  who  deserted  his  sheep  and 
built  himself  a  pillar  of  stones,  gradually  reaching  the 
height  of  sixty  feet.  Here  he  skilfully  balanced  himself 
thirty  years.  Gibbon  says  :  "  Successive  crowds  of  pilgrims 
from  Gaul  and  India  saluted  the  divine  pillar  of  Simeon." 
He  was  all  but  adored  by  kings  and  queens.  The  Emperor 
Theodosius  consulted  him  on  affairs  of  Church  and  State  ; 
his  funeral  was  royal  in  its  pageantry.  Indeed,  there  was 
scarcely  a  passion  of  human  nature  to  which  the  monastery 
could  not  appeal  to  win  recruits.  All  that  could  soothe 
conscience,  all  that  could  flatter  vanity,  all  that  could 
promise  humility,  all  that  could  tempt  ambition,  had  here 


THE    MONASTERY.  147 

a  settled  residence.  There  is  indeed  plenty  of  reason  for 
the  existence  of  the  monastery,  and  its  gigantic  proportion 
in  the  Middle  Age  is  less  and  less  mysterious  the  more  we 
look  into  that  age.  Nor  must  we  go  too  far  in  condemna 
tion  of  those,  the  holy  fathers  of  the  Christian  faith,  who, 
in  the  midst  of  a  crooked  and  perverse  generation,  contrib 
uted  so  largely  to  the  excessive  growth  of  monastic  life. 
.Rather  let  us  attain  to  the  temper  of  Charles  Kingsley,  and 
seek  to  find,  as  he  says,  "  some  apology  for  the  failings  of 
such  truly  great  men  as  Dunstan,  Becket,  and  Dominic, 
and  of  many  more  whom,  if  we  hate,  we  shall  never  under 
stand,  while  we  shall  be  but  too  likely,  in  our  own  way,  to 
copy  them."  Kingsley  says,  in  his  preface  to  the  "  Saint's 
Tragedy  "  :  "  The  Middle  Age  was,  in  the  gross,  a  coarse, 
barbarous,  and  profligate  age.  ...  It  was,  in  fact,  the  very 
ferocity  and  foulness  of  the  times  which,  by  a  natural  revul 
sion,  called  forth  at  the  same  time  the  apostolic  holiness  and 
the  Manichean  asceticism  of  the  mediaeval  saints.  The 
world  was  so  bad  that  to  be  saints  at  all  they  were  compelled 
to  go  out  of  the  world.  .  .  .  But  really  time  enough  has 
been  lost  in  ignorant  abuse  of  that  period,  and  time  enough 
also,  lately,  in  blind  adoration  of  it.  When  shall  we  learn 
to  see  it  as  it  was,  the  dawning  manhood  of  Europe,  rich 
with  all  the  tenderness,  the  simplicity,  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  hut  also  darkened,  alas  !  with  its  full  share  of  youth's 
precipitance  and  extravagance,  fierce  passions,  and  blind 
self-will  ;  its  virtues  and  its  vices  colossal,  and  for  that  very 
reason  always  haunted  by  the  twin-imp  of  the  colossal --the 
caricatured." 


148       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 


III. 

What  other  than  a  calamity  could  that  be  considered 
which  took  away  from  both  Church  and  State  its  best  and 
purest-minded  citizens  ?  Yet  this  was  precisely  the  imme 
diate  effect  of  the  monastery  upon  its  own  times.  Thou 
sands  upon  thousands  from  those  mediaeval  societies,  so 
needing  manhood  and  Christianhood,  were  swept  by  this 
monstrous  epidemic  superstition.  In  Egypt,  in  the  century 
in  which  Antony  lived,  it  is  stated  that  the  number  of  cit 
izens  thus  nullified  to  the  state  was  equal  to  those  left. 
Centuries  before  the  feudal  system  settled  like  the  stone  of 
a  sepulchre  upon  the  masses  entombed  beneath  it — centuries 
before  chivalry  issued  in  its  haughty  aristocracy  therefrom, 
did  the  monastery  draw  to  its  silent  prison  the  men  and 
women  in  whom,  save  for  this  curdling  superstition,  was 
virtue  enough  to  keep  the  whole  world  sweet.  In  vain 
did  the  emperors  issue  decrees  against  this  decimation  of 
the  State.  The  eloquence  of  the  fathers,  the  tyranny  of 
diseased  conscience,  exceeded  in  authority  the  mandates  of 
the  Caesars. 

In  the  beginning  it  is  the  individual  who  must  be  saved 
at  price  of  all  penance  and  renunciation.  In  the  end  it  is 
the  Church  that  must  prosper  at  the  cost  of  all  individual 
character — the  individual  contributing  to  the  prosperity  of 
the  Church  will  be  saved  as  a  matter  of  course.  In  the 
beginning  the  monastery  is  a  hermit,  then  a  company  of 
monks — cenobites  having  all  things  in  common — living  on 
rocks,  in  caves,  subsisting  on  air  and  prayer.  In  the  end  it 
is  the  gorgeous  monastery  of  elaborate  architecture — the 


THE   MONASTERY.  149 

mitred  abbot  with  retinue  like  a  king,  with  royal  refectory, 
with  feudal  acres,  lord  over  a  spiritual  aristocracy. 

All  along  the  line,  however,  we  see  effort  at  reform  and 
restoration  of  the  early  ideal.  After  Antony,  with  a  lapso 
of  four  odd  centuries,  comes  Benedict,  to  put  in  order  and 
subject  to  rule  ;  after  Benedict,  by  six  odd  centuries,  come 
Francis  and  Dominic,  to  engraft  the  early  good  fruit  on  the 
aging,  corrupt  tree  ;  and  again,  in  the  fourteenth  century, 
we  see  the  Augustinian  reformer.  Yet  this  was  the  order 
in  which,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  Luther  found  the  need 
and  the  germ  of  a  more  radical  and  permanent  reformation. 
And  Luther  stands  to  us  in  total  contrast  to  any  ideal,  early 
or  late,  of  monastic  life.  Pre-eminently  a  man  among 
men,  most  human  in  humanity,  we  see  in  his  character,  and 
his  creed,  and  his  work  the  eternal  antagonism  of  Chris 
tianity  to  monachism. 

To  its  own  times,  then,  we  must  view  the  institution  of 
monastic  life  as  containing  more  the  constituents  of  a  curse 
than  a  blessing.  But  he  who  comes  to  bring  this  indict 
ment  must  not  sum  up  his  case  before  he  has  studied  the 
effect  of  the  monastery  on  succeeding  times.  And  with  a 
lengthening  sweep  of  vision  we  may  discern  results  from 
this  institution  on  succeeding  ages  which,  to  both  State  and 
Church — to  society  and  Christianity  rather — have  been 
untold  blessings. 

Society  owes  to  the  monastery  its  democracy.  This  off 
shoot  from  mediaeval  society  preserved  in  its  aristocracy  of 
asceticism  the  individual  to  the  State.  Feudal  aristocracy 
took  all  the  men  and  women,  in  Lady  Montagu's  use  of 
that  phrase.  They  alone  carne  to  the  surface  ;  there  was 
no  chance  for  the  low-born  and  the  underling.  Mind  was 


150        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

no  measure  of  the  man  in  those  days — would  never  have 
been,  save  for  the  gradual  development  of  the  intellectual 
through  the  narrow  but  deep  channels  of  the  scholasticism 
of  the  monasteries.  Here  the  vulgus  could  rush  in  and 
compel  recognition  and  deference.  Gregory  VII.,  the 
gigantic  constructive  genius  of  the  Middle  Age,  the  son  of  a 
carpenter,  could  work  his  way  through  the  cell  of  the  monk 
to  the  papal  chair,  and  there  compel  homage  and  submission 
from  an  emperor.  The  Church  of  the  Middle  Ages  recog 
nized  always  the  individual,  and  the  coarsest  and  poorest 
might  be  transmuted  into  fine  gold  through  the  crucibles  of 
cloister  and  cell.  This  bare  suggestion  may  be  developed 
with  logical  sequences  until  we  realize  the  grand  causality 
of  this  institution  of  mediaeval  times,  in  the  evolution  of  a 
true  democracy  of  modern  times. 

To  the  evolution  of  a  practical  Christianity  in  succeed 
ing  times  the  monastery  brings  also  an  incalculable  factor. 
Ideals  in  manhood  and  Christianhood  emerge  into  view,  by 
successive  action  and  reaction.  Doubtless  the  world  must 
some  time  have  tried  the  monastic  ideal.  The  egregious 
mistake  that  it  is  clearly  seen  to  be  with  the  vision  that 
comes  after  the  event,  could  never  have  been  so  seen  before 
the  event.  St.  Jerome  would  not  advise  the  monastic  life 
in  the  days  of  Kingsley  and  Stanley  ;  yet  how  can  we  be 
sure  that  a  Kingsley  or  a  Stanley  would  not  have  erred 
with  St.  Jerome  in  his  own  day  ?  Certain  it  is  that  the 
problem  how  to  live  in  the  world  but  not  of  the  world  still 
confronts  those  who  would  be  unworldly  ;  and  as  certain 
that  Christendom  has,  once  for  all,  had  it  proven  that  the 
problem  is  not  solved  by  isolation  from  the  world. 

And  yet  it  could  ill  afford  to  spare  these  pioneer  monks, 


THE   MONASTERY.  151 

who,  with  all  their  excesses  and  painful  perversions,  are 
4 '  those  without  whom  we  could  not  be  made  perfect." 
Montalembert  says  :  "  Who  has  not  contemplated,  if  not 
with  the  eyes  of  faith,  at  least  with  the  admiration  inspired 
by  uncontrollable  greatness  of  soul,  the  struggles  of  these 
athletes  of  penitence  ?  .  .  .  Everything  is  to  be  found  there 
— variety,  pathos,  the  sublime  and  simple  epic  of  a  race  of 
men  earnest  as  children  and  strong  as  giants." 

One  great  common  benefit  to  both  mediaeval  and  modern 
world  the  monastery  subserved — a  benefit  so  transcendent 
that  for  it  we  forgive  all  its  egregious  suicide  of  citizen  and 
Christian,  its  incarceration  and  mutilation  of  each.  It  did 
for  us  what  could  have  been  done  by  no  other  means  in  this 
ruined  and  ruinous  epoch  of  time — it  kept  us  our  books. 
The  storm  raged  everywhere,  but  here  was  safe  repository, 
and  in  the  advanced  years  of  the  monastic  institution  the 
compilation  and  copying  of  these  priceless  manuscripts  was  a 
leading  feature  of  the  industrious  life  of  a  monk.  The 
Scriptorium  of  the  monastery  is  to  us  moderns  hallowed 
ground,  and  for  it  we  may  forget  its  cells  and  their  terrors. 

The  monastery  of  the  Middle  Ages  has  passed  away  with 
the  times  that  gave  it  birth.  In  place  of  a  squalid  encamp 
ment  spread  upon  the  burning  sands  of  Africa,  sentineled 
with  hermit  huts,  a  circle  of  separate'  cells  where  ascetics  of 
superior  piety  burrowed  like  moles  in  the  sand — in  place  of 
the  rocky  rendezvous  of  northern  lands,  swarming  with  its 
busy  brotherhood — in  place  of  the  opulent  abbey,  where 
sensual  abbot  and  worldly  friar  in  a  later  day  became  the 
minions  of  popes  and  the  masters  of  men — in  place  of  all 
this  we  have,  here  and  there,  a  lichened  abbey,  a  vacant 
pile  of  mediaeval  architecture,  in  Africa,  in  Palestine,  in 


152        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

Italy,  whose  crumbling  ruins  make  a  melancholy  monument 
to  the  fanatic  populace  that  once  thronged  their  cells  and 
now  lie  in  the  dust  beneath  them.  Here  and  there,  indeed, 
the  traveller  finds  a  roof  and  shelter,  food  and  lodging,  a 
lighted  fire  and  a  kindly  welcome  from  the  modern  friar, 
whose  length  of  belt  and  ringing  laugh  tell  no  tale  of  early 
days.  Rarely,  indeed,  as  at  La  Trappe,  may  the  ghost  of 
Antony  be  fancied  to  revisit  his  degenerate  progeny,  degen 
erate  even  in  the  austere  rule  and  miserable  asceticism  of 
the  terrible  Trappists.  As  we  gaze  upon  the  ruins  of  the 
mediaeval  monastery,  and  as  our  imagination  summons  before 
us  from  their  dust  a  multitude  of  mediaeval  monks  and  nuns, 
led  by  the  saintly  Antony,  who  bends  beneath  the  hundred 
years  of  his  tortured  existence  ;  a  courtly  Basil,  eloquent 
and  learned  ;  a  Roman  matron,  Paula,  in  whose  veins  were 
mingled  blood  of  Grecian  Agamemnon  and  Roman  Grac 
chus,  whose  wealth  embraced  a  city  of  Augustinian  gran 
deur  ;  a  shepherd,  Simeon,  self-chained  to  his  pillar's  sum 
mit  through  the  fires  of  thirty  summers,  through  the  frosts 
of  thirty  winters,  bending  in  the  blast  beneath  the  sun,  be 
neath  the  stars,  with  ceaseless  wail  for  "  mercy,  mercy  !"  — 
when  we  mark  the  myriads  that  follow  in  their  wake,  noble 
with  peasant,  scholar  with  clown,  all  alike  with  bowed 
head,  and  downcast  eye,  and  emaciated  figure,  loaded  with 
iron  greaves  and  collars,  covered  with  hair  like  the  beasts 
among  whom  they  lived,  winding  in  and  out  of  narrow, 
vacant,  unlit  cells,  bending  before  the  cross  which  every 
where  confronts  them — when  we  hear  their  wailing  Miserere 
echoing  through  the  silent  air,  when  we  behold  their  pain- 
sharpened  features,  their  sunken  eyes  glowing  with  terror  of 
remorse,  pleading  for  absolution,  their  ghastly  glances  fixed 


THE   MONASTERY.  153 

upon  an  approaching  doom  which  diseased  conscience  peo 
ples  with  demon  and  avenger — alas  !  what  spectacle  has 
history  presented  that  equals  this  for  melancholy  ? 

The  mediaeval  monastery  has  passed  away.  It  will  not 
return.  But  monachism  remains,  and  will  remain  while 
human  nature  bides  its  time.  Over  and  over  again  will  a 
wretched  phantasy  of  conscience  bid  the  conscience-stricken 
turn  his  back  on  homely,  present  duty  in  the  battle-plain  of 
life,  and  make  the  same  old  experiment  of  self-salvation 
in  unhallowed  renunciations.  The  spirit  of  Monachism  has 
survived  the  mediaeval  monastery.  Its  profitless  experi 
ments,  its  unavailing  renunciations,  are  not  now  confined 
to  convent  walls.  Not  among  those  luminous  figures  which 
emerge  from  the  modern  convent  to  carry  the  comfort  of 
the  Cross  to  battle-field  and  prison-cell  and  hospital  cot, 
do  we  find  the  painf ulest  examples  of  its  sad  misleading  ; 
but  in  the  selfish  segregations  of  the  fashionable  cliques,  the 
complacent  hypocrisy  of  social  ostracisms,  of  scientific 
unbelief,  of  sated,  soulless  culture,  of  morbid  research,  of 
wretched  introspection,  of  indolent  abstraction  from  the 
practicabilities  of  life.  The  mediaeval  man  fled  into  the 
monastery  ;  the  modern  man  flees  into  himself,  and  all  un 
consciously,  in  manifold  ways,  repeats  the  old  vain  folly  of 
a  selfish  subjectivity. 

Hundreds  of  years  before  Antony  of  Egypt  laid  the 
corner-stone  of  the  mediaeval  monastery  a  young  man  sat 
on  an  Eastern  throne,  ruler  over  countless  myriads  of  servile 
subjects,  owner  of  all  the  wealth  of  India.  Yet,  though 
swaying  so  potent  a  sceptre,  seated  on  so  towering  a  throne, 
wearing  so  glittering  a  crown,  the  soul  within  this  youthful 
monarch  tortured  him  to  a  strange  sacrifice  for  its  sake. 


154:        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

He  abandons  all — throne,  subjects,  wealth,  pleasure,  power 
— and,  searching  out  the  meanest  and  most  abject  slave  in 
his  realm,  takes  from  him  his  tattered,  filthy  robe,  and  puts  it 
on  his  own  royal  form,  and  thus  disguised  goes  forth  from 
all  humanity  to  be  alone.  In  trackless  forest  and  in  barren 
desert,  in  cave  of  beast  and  rock  of  eagle,  he  serves  out  his 
self-appointed  term  of  penance  and  probation  ;  and  when 
this  is  accomplished  he  returns,  another  being  from  another 
world,  and  lays  before  his  subjects,  among  whom  is  none 
so  poor  as  he,  the  true  wealth  he  has  found — the  secret  of 
existence,  the  sicmmum  bonum  of  human  life,  the  knowl 
edge  how  to  lose  existence,  how  to  submerge  human  life, 
how  to  annihilate  the  individual. 

Behold  in  Buddhism  the  genius  of  the  monastery  !  Be 
hold  in  Gautama  the  prototype  of  Antony  ! 

Bat  midway  between  Antony  and  Gautama  behold  the 
Nazarene,  the  young  Carpenter,  the  Evangelist,  the  Son, 
the  Brother,  the  Man  of  Bethlehem — behold  Him  entering 
into  all  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  manhood  which  He 
dignified,  wearing  graciously  to  its  last  humiliation  the  garb 
of  human  flesh  to  which  He  has  ever  joined  in  honorable 
wedlock  the  unassailable  human  soul — behold  Him,  from 
His  manger- cradle  to  His  death-bed  cross,  pre-eminently 
the  Man  of  men,  fullest  of  humanity,  whose  whole  burden 
of  mission  to  us  lies  epitomized  in  His  own  statement  :  "I 
am  come  that  ye  might  have  life,  and  that  ye  might  have  it 
more  abundantly." 

Life  1     Life  !     A  more  intense,  individual  human  life  ! 

"  'Tis  life  of  which  our  views  are  scant— 

More  life,  and  fuller,  that  we  want !"  " 

The  humanity  of  each  of  us  is  like  some  ^Eolian  harp 


THE   MONASTERY.  155 

constructed  by  the  Master  Musician  and  laid  down  ten 
derly  by  Him  upon  the  sea-shore  where  winds  from  every 
quarter  play  continuously.  Buddhism  would  sweep  into  the 
vast  ocean  this  palpitating  lyre,  and  mix  its  several  elements 
indistinguishably  in  the  deep  waters.  Mediaeval  monasticism 
would  heap  it  with  sand  and  bury  its  melodies  from  every 
human  ear.  An  enlightened  Christianity  would  leave  it, 
free  and  sensitive,  upon  the  shore — would  open  it  to  all  the 
winds  that  hurry  to  and  fro,  that  it  may  give  out  to  heaven 
and  earth  its  full  completed  harmony. 

Behold  in  Christianity  the  antipode  of  Buddhism,  the 
antidote  of  MonachisKi ! 


MF.I>M:VAI.  KNICIITS. 


CHI V A  LEY. 

As  the  word  Chivalry  falls  upon  our  ears  a  motley  multi 
tude,  in  shadowy  panorama,  glides  before  us.  Here  gleam 
the  lances  of  a  Richard,  lion-hearted,  a  Godfrey,  a  Ray 
mond,  a  St.  Louis ;  blending  anon  with  cross  and  staff  of 
barefooted  pilgrim,  or  hermit  Peter,  or  pauper  Walter,  sans 
savoir,  or  priestly  St.  Bernard  ;  changing  with  ample  tur 
ban  of  remorseless  Turk  and  flashing  cimetar  of  bearded 
Saracen,  worn  and  borne  by  a  Suleiman  or  a  Saladin.  Or 
perhaps  we  think  of  an  Arthur  or  a  Tancred,  summing  up 
in  one  the  virtues  of  the  ideal  knight, 

"  Who  reverenced  his  conscience  as  his  king, 
Whose  glory  was  redressing  human  wrongs, 
Who  spake  no  slander,  no,  nor  listened  to  it, 
Who  loved  one  only,  and  who  clave  to  her." 

This  masculine  perfection  is  broad  and  tall,  a  splendid 
giant,  mounted  always  on  a  plunging  charger,  with  drawn 
lance  and  tossing  plume,  with  broidered  doublet  and 
jewelled  girdle  beneath  the  graceful  cloak  which  hangs 
with  careful  carelessness  on  the  left  shoulder.  This,  if  our 
author  chance  to  be  Tasso,  or  Tennyson,  or  Sir  Walter 
Scott.  • 

If,  however,  we  have  fallen  upon  Cervantes  and  gained 
from  him  onr  notion  of  the  mediaeval  chevalier,  straightway 
the  name  evokes  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Figure,  with 


160       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

disjointed,  rattling  armor,  mounted  on  liis  wind-broken 
steed,  with  pasteboard  vizor,  making  furious  raids  on  wind 
mills,  attended  at  a  comfortable  interval  by  his  somnolent, 
sententious  squire  solidly  astride  a  stiff-legged  ass  ! — the 
one  sublime,  the  other  ridiculous,  and  both  fictions.  Yet, 
if  there  be  but  one  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous, 
that  step  must  be  our  via  media  •  and  here,  if  anywhere 
between  the  two  extremes,  shall  we  find  our  veritable  his 
toric  chevalier. 

We  cannot  deny  that  inclination  might  turn  us  to  one 
side  alone  and  leave  us  there,  were  inclination  not  in  league 
with  conscience  in  this  research.  We  would  rather  believe 
in  the  exquisite  Tancred  of  Tasso,  the  impassioned  Orlando 
of  Ariosto,  with  their  superhuman  virtues  and  valors,  their 
transcendent  prowe&s  and  fortitude,  than  in  something  less. 
But  we  must  take  what  history  gives  us. 


I. 

In  our  brief  study  of  mediaeval  chivalry  we  must  hold 
ourselves  ready  at  any  time  to  separate  the  spirit  of  chivalry 
from  the  institution  of  chivalry,  to  which  it  gave  rise. 

The  spirit  of  chivalry  may  be  inferred  from  the  vow 
which  in  its  early  history  was  confession  of  faith  to  the 
chevalier,  and  is  thus  epitomized  :  "  To  speak  the  truth,  to 
succor  the  helpless  and  oppressed,  and  never  to  turn  back 
from  an  enemy."  Fidelity,  clemency,  courage,  courtesy — 
these  four  seern  to  sum  up  the  main  points  of  the  chivalrie 
code.  From  this  vow,  taken  by  youths  of  noble  lineage  at 


CHIVALRY.  161 

the  age  of  twenty-one,  and  accompanied  with  the  investiture 
of  arms,  arose  the  institution  of  chivalry,  which,  from  small 
to  large,  grew,  in  the  lapse  of  time,  into  the  vast  proportions 
of  a  military  organization,  and  for  several  centuries  formed 
a  cavalry  which  was  the  nearest  approach  to  and  substitute 
for  a  standing  army  in  the  new  nations  of  Europe. 

The  ceremony  of  initiation  into  the  rank  of  chevalier  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one  was  preceded  by  a  regular  education 
from  the  age  of  seven.  From  this  time  up  to  the  age  of 
fourteen  the  boy  was  page  to  the  lords  and  ladies  in  the 
castle  of  his  feudal  superior,  and  at  this  impressible  age 
acquired,  from  association  with  its  votaries,  the  notions  and 
manners  of  chivalry.  The  next  ssven  years  he  was  called 
squire,  and  his  duties  were  those  of  attendance  upon  his 
superior  at  tournament,  or  joust,  or  real  battle,  where  skill 
and  prowess  in  the  field  duties  of  knighthood  were  acquired. 
Then,  this  seven  years  of  apprenticeship  being  served,  at 
the  age  of  twenty-one  the  young,  squire  takes  the  vow  pre 
scribed,  is  invested  with  arms,  and  made  a  knight  in  the 
presence  of  an  assembled  multitude. 

Command  imagination  to  present  you  at  this  scene.  Let 
us  join  this  multitude  of  fair  women  and  brave  men  over 
whom  the  sun,  reflected  from  myriad  glittering  lances, 
sheds  a  dazzling  light.  Behold  in  the  centre  of  this  arena, 
to  which  all  eyes  are  turned,  the  young  Frank,  massive  of 
form,  fair  of  face,  lofty  of  mien.  Listen,  while  every  ear 
is  strained  and  every  sound  is  hushed,  as  with  ringing  voice 
he  vows  toward  Heaven  to  "  speak  the  truth,  to  succor  the 
helpless  and  oppressed,  and  never  to  turn  back  from  an 
enemy."  Behold  him  now  kneel  as  his  sovereign  lord 
invests  him  with  the  belt  and  spurs,  and  places  in  his  hand 


102       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

the  lance  of  chivalry,  while  with  his  own  he  strikes  the 
glowing  cheek  of  the  young  chevalier  one  blow  as  token 
of  the  last  insult  he  shall  endure. 


II. 

There  has  been  much  dispute  arid  research  as  to  when 
chivalry  was  instituted.  Hallam  says  "  chivalry  may,  in  a 
general  sense,  be  referred  to  the  age  of  Charlemagne."  In 
the  Cabalarii  of  Karl  we  find  the  equipment  and  investi 
ture  of  the  cavalier,  if  not  his  creed  and  conduct.  These 
pet  soldiers  were  matched  by  the  Milites  of  the  eleventh 
and  twelfth  centuries,  when  feudalism  had  established  aris 
tocracy  among  the  nations  of  Europe.  In  the  decentraliza 
tion  of  sovereign  power  which  followed  the  taking  off  of 
Charlemagne,  there  began  to  be  many  centres  of  government 
and  society,  inside  circles,  and  wheels  within  wheels.  The 
king  stood,  with  his  dukes,  at  the  centre  of  the  system. 
Barons  circled  outside  and  revolved  about  these,  themselves 
being  centres  of  still  outer  circles,  composed,  in  turn,  of 
their  subordinates,  who  were  sometimes  nobles,  but  in 
ferior  ;  sometimes  free  men,  but  dependent  ;  sometimes 
serfs,  who  were  to  their  lords  little  more  than  chattel 
property. 

This  state  of  society  reached  its  worst  and  best  in  the 
period  between  the  ninth  and  twelfth  centuries.  The 
anarchy  which  ensued  in  the  kingdom  of  France  upon  the 
death  of  Charlemagne,  the  extinction  of  the  Carlovingian 
and  the  usurpation  of  the  Capetian  dynasty,  may  be 


CHIVALRY.  163 

regarded  as  parent  occasion  to  the  development  of  that  sub 
sequent  aristocracy  of  which  the  head  and  front  is  found  in 
the  institution  of  chivalry.  From  out  the  ranks  of  this 
feudal  aristocracy  could  be  summoned,  on  occasion,  an 
armed  and  mounted  cavalry  to  serve  in  its  defence  ;  and 
the  relation  of  vassal  and  superior  was,  in  its  origin,  not 
inimical  to  the  development  of  many  of  the  virtues  and 
graces  of  chivalry. 

The  question,  Where  was  chivalry  born  ?  may  be  an 
swered  in  a  monosyllable.  For  in  that  twilight  time  the 
stars  shone  chiefly  on  one  spot.  Not  Italy,  decrepit  and 
dismembered  ;  not  Germany,  the  prey  of  savages  from 
eastern  wilds  ;  not  Spain,  as  yet  unallied  with  Germany  and 
standing,  quite  at  bay,  with  lance  of  French  hunter  on  the 
east,  and  howl  of  wolfish  Moslem  on  the  west ;  not  Eng 
land,  unarisen  from  the  ground  where  Saxon  grapples  Nor 
man  ere  their  wrestle  grows  to  an  embrace. 

Nowhere  but  over  France  is  there  space  of  tranquil  sky  in 
which  the  star  of  chivalry  can  rise-  and  reach  its  zenith. 
And  there  it  burns,  illuminating  the  neighboring  nations, 
and  lighting  distant  ones  with  a  lengthened  ray.  The 
fiery  Spaniard,  senile  Roman,  sullen  Saxon,  and  afar  the 
subtle  Saracen  copy  the  graces  of  the  chevalier  of  France, 
despite  the  intermittent  discords  among  their  nationalities. 
The  ferocity  of  their  wars  is  greatly  mitigated  by  the  man 
ners  and  virtues  of  the  code  of  chivalry.  The  chronic  quar 
rels  between  the  Capetians  and  Plantagenets  were  less  brutal 
than  any  battles  ever  were.  Hallam  says  :  "In  the  wars  of 
Edward  III.,  originating  in  no  real  animosity,  the  spirit  of 
honorable  as  well  as  courteous  conduct  toward  the  foe  seemed 
to  have  arrived  at  its  highest  point."  Ruskin  says  :  "  Tho 


164       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

battle  of  Agincourt  is  romantic,  and  of  Bannockburn,  sim- 
ply  because  there  was  an  extraordinary  display  of  human 
virtue  in  both  these  battles."  There  was  much  of  the  joust 
and  something  of  the  tournament  in  these  engagements,  de 
spite  the  bloodshed.  In  the  closing  decade  of  the  eleventh 
century  the  star  of  chivalry  rested  in  its  zenith  over  the 
sepulchre  in  Palestine,  and  was  reflected  thence  until  all  these 
tilting  lancers — Spaniard,  Saxon,  German,  and  Italian — 
rallied  round  the  chevalier  of  France,  and  bore  in  common 
cause  a  com.non  lance  beneath  the  Oriflamme  ! 

We  gaze  upon  Uiis  phenomenon  of  chivalry,  pre-eminent 
not  only  in  the  history  of  society  in  the  Middle  Ages,  but 
pre-eminent  in  the  history  of  society  in  all  ages,  and  we 
wonder  whence  this  wondrous  bloom  amid  the  desert.  "We 
look  so  unbelievingly  upon  the  good  side  of  our  humanity 
that  a  development  there  is  first  incredible  and  then  unac 
countable.  A  Sardanapalus  does  not  tax  our  credulity,  nor 
a  Nero — the  horrors  of  ancient  and  modern  pagan  societies  ; 
but  a  Gautama,  a  Socrates,  an  Aurelius  upon  the  throne  of 
the  Csesars,  an  Epictetus  in  the  days  of  Nero — these  strain 
our  credulity,  and  we  constantly  wonder  how  it  was.  Yet  in 
my  view  it  is  to  the  unadulterated  good  in  humanity  that  we 
must  refer  the  rise  and  development  of  this  pre-eminent 
phenomenon  of  chivalry.  It  is  true  these  knights  had 
the  historic  Christ,  and  some  of  them  loved  and  served 
Him  with  the  knightly  love  that  makes  all  who  have  it 
"  Knights  of  the  Holy  Ghost ;"  for  the  modern  phenom 
enon,  a  Christian,  has  in  him  the  mediaeval  phenomenon, 
a  chevalier.  But  the  institution  of  chivalry  did  not  spring 
from  Christianity,  nor  were  the  creed,  tradition,  or  practice 
of  what  the  theologians  call  revealed  religion  any  essential 


CHIVALRY.  165 

of  the  creed,  tradition,  or  practice  of  chivalry  ;  yet  it  had 
its  springs  in  the  religious  nature  of  man  ;  it  sprang  from 
the  necessity  of  man  to  create  for  himself  an  ideal,  from  that 
inalienable  endowment  of  human  nature  by  which  we  must 
worship,  aspire,  obey. 

This  position  takes  very  general  ground,  and  does  not  pre 
vent  the  entrance  of  many  particulars  which  may  fill  the 
interval  lying  between  first  cause  and  effect.  Thus  some 
say  the  seeds  of  the  Socratic  teachings,  the  Stoic  philoso 
phies,  or  that  of  Boethius,  nearer  their  own  times,  put  the 
thought  of  chivalry  into  these  medisevals,  and  caused  the 
formulation  of  its  sublimely  simple  creed.  This  may  be  or 
may  not  be  ;  I  only  claim  for  these  mediaeval  men  that  they 
could  have  thought  this  thought  unassisted. 

Speaking  of  links  in  the  chain  of  causation,  however,  I 
must  mention  one  which  was  certainly  original  with  these 
mediaevals — the  woman  in  it  !  The  romancers  and  poets, 
Chaucer  at  their  head,  make  her  the  first  cause  here  ;  this 
I  do  not  admit ;  but  I  shall  do  no  violence  to  my  convictions 
if  I  consent  to  call  this  natural  religion,  which  was  not  the 
worshipping,  obeying,  and  following  of  a  historic  Christ, 
the  worshipping  at  least  of  woman.  And  here  we  strike 
upon  the  great  distinguishing  characteristic  of  chivalry — 
something  we  find  nowhere  else — its  mystic  ideal,  the 
woman.  The  hist  lines  of  Goethe's  greatest  work  sums  up 
the  essence  of  the  chevalier's  theology  :  "  Ever  the  woman- 
soul  leadeth  us  on."  The  Ewigweibliche  was  their  misty, 
mystic  deity  ;  the  woman  supplied  to  them  their  anthro 
pomorphic  deity.  Of  course  what  I  have  said  by  way  of 
indicating  the  line  of  thought  along  which  we  must  travel 
in  order  to  arrive  at  the  parent  causes  of  chivalry  relates 


166       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

to  the  spirit  or  theory  of  chivalry  rather  than  to  the  in 
stitution.  I  suppose  we  need  not  search  long  for  the 
causes  of  Charlemagne's  Cabalarii.  The  idea  in  the  busy 
brain  of  the  monarch  which  brought  about  the  organization 
of  this  fine  cavalry  was  not  more  religious,  I  presume,  than 
that  which  produced  the  Tall  Regiment  of  Frederick  "Will 
iam  of  Prussia,  or  the  invincible  Beef -Eaters  of  Henry  VII. 
and  Victoria  of  England.  Cause  here  is  resolved  into  occa 
sion,  and  both  are  on  the  surface. 

The  institution  of  chivalry,  as  it  became  elaborated  and 
corrupted  with  accretions  alien  to  its  spirit,  lost  its  chem 
istry,  and  became  a  thing  of  mechanism.  Its  affinities  un 
locked,  and  its  substance  went  into  solution.  Prom  this 
solution  came,  as  permanent  political  precipitate,  the  stand 
ing  armies  of  Europe.  Its  fantastic  adornments  and  senti 
mental  practices  passed,  as  its  superficial  social  crystal,  into 
the  courtiers  of  later  days,  the  cavaliers  of  English  Stuart 
and  French  Bourbon  regimes.  That  intrinsic,  indestruc 
tible,  immutable  element,  the  spirit  of  chivalry,  evaporated 
into  those  high  regions  whence  it  came  and  comes  again, 
wooing,  by  its  gentle  virtues,  from  the  soil  of  all  ages  rare 
blooms  of  knightly  service  to  the  world. 

Hallam  says  the  invention  of  gunpowder  made  an  end  of 
the  institution  of  chivalry.  This  engine  of  modern  civiliza 
tion  was  known  in  the  thirteenth  century,  but  did  not  reach 
efficiency  in  warfare  until  the  commencement  of  the 
fifteenth.  The  Crusades  of  the  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
centuries  engrafted  upon  chivalry  that  excessive  elaboration 
which  is  the  inevitable  precursor  of  corruption  in  all  human 
institutions.  In  time  the  golden  article  of  chivalry — clem 
ency  to  the  weak  and  conquered,  and  courtesy  to  all— took 


CHIVALEY.  167 

on  the  character  of  gallantry  toward  women,  which  was,  as 
its  workings  show,  either  a  sensual  sophistry  or  a  fantastic 
sentimentality,  emasculating  ideal  knighthood.  1  think,  in 
a  sense  not  wholly  literal,  Hallam.  is  right.  The  cannon  of 
the  fifteenth  century  blew  up  the  thing  still  bearing  the 
name  of  chivalry.  The  gun  superseded  the  lance.  The 
pomp  and  circumstance  of  chivalry  dispersed,  its  day  being 
done.  But  when  the  artillery  of  modern  times  levelled  this 
breastwork  of  the  mediaevals,  if  fallen,  as  a  whole,  there  yet 
remained  fractions  of  the  structure,  but  units  in  themselves, 
imperishable  granite  stones  wedged  into  the  edifice  which 
no  shock  could  disintegrate,  and  which  will  endure,  for  the 
admiration  of  the  ages.  There  were  immortal  lords  and 
ladies — for,  as  we  have  seen,  ladies  were  sine  qua  non 
of  knights — men  and  women — the  men  and  women — the 
world's  best — aristocracy  of  all  the  ages — a  Spanish  Cid, 
"  inferior  to  none  that  ever  lived  in  frankness,  honor,  and 
magnanimity,"  Hallam  says  ;  and  Schlegel  calls  him  an 
ineffaceable  picture  "  of  the  single-minded  and  true-hearted 
old  Castilian  spirit,  .  .  .  undoubtedly  the  genuine  history1" 
of  the  man — true  Spanish  gold  in  exchange  for  all  Quixote 
counterfeits  ;  and  the  Donna  Ximena,  his  wife,  full  in 
demnity  for  all  Dulcineas  ;  a  Richard,  lion-hearted  and  yet 
shedding  knightly  tears  of  knightlier  penitence  at  his  father's 
grave — solid  gain  for  any  dubious,  superhuman  Arthur  ;  a 
veritable  Tancred  in  good  change  for  Tasso's  saint ;  and  his 
uncle,  Robert  Guiscard,  the  Norman  knight  of  marvellous 
renown,  whom  Gibbon  describes  as  "of  lofty  stature,  sur 
passing  the  tallest  of  his  army  ;  his  complexion  ruddy,  his 
shoulders  broad,  his  hair  and  beard  long  and  of  flaxen 
color  his  eyes  sparkling  with  fire,  while  his  voice,  like  that 


168       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

of  Achilles,  could  impress  obedience  and  terror  amid  the 
tumult  of  battle — wielding  his  sword  in  one  hand,  in  the 
other  his  lance,  thrice  unhorsed  in  battle  of  which  he  was 
most  eminent  victor  over  eminent  victors."  Of  less  fleshly 
splendor  is  a  St.  Louis,  most  tender  son,  most  valiant  Chris 
tian,  whose  virtues  and  graces  realize  the  Arthur  of  poetry  ; 
and  his  mother,  Regent  Blanche,  every  inch  a  monarch  and 
every  inch  a  mother  ;  and  his  seneschal,  the  Sieur  de  Join- 
ville,  of  frankest  heart,  most  lovable  in  child-like  chivalry. 
Some  antiquarians  seem  afraid  of  too  much  light  upon 
these  fine  antiques,  and  perhaps  many  of  us  may  have  a 
subtle  suspicion  that  by  a  too  free  ventilation  these  time- 
tinted  portraits  may  lose  those  lovely  hues  of  age  which 
suffice  to  stamp  them  as  "  genuine."  This  feeling  comes 
from  the  enchantment  which  distance  lends  to  our  ideals, 
and  is  something  to  be  gently  criticised.  But  in  this  par 
ticular  case  I  think  there  is  small  ground  for  fear.  Hob 
him  of  much  with  which  hero-worship  invests  him,  and  there 
still  remains  to  this  mediaeval  chevalier  that  which  will  ever 
more  preserve  and  distinguish  him.  One  or  two  of  his 
characteristics  are  lost  to  us  moderns,  and  will  forever  stamp 
him  sui  generis.  There  are  and  will  be  men  as  strong  of 
heart,  but  there  never  will  or  can  be,  I  venture,  men  so 
strong  of  nerve  and  muscle — men  of  such  physical  perfec 
tions,  of  such  matchless  prowess,  of  such  superb  endurance. 
We  need  not  go  far  to  find  causes  for  our  degeneration  from 
this  stature  of  the  perfect  physical  man,  and  we  need  not 
take  space  to  apologize  for  it  ;  it  remains  a  fact,  and  one 
upon  which  we  shall  not  try  to  congratulate  ourselves.  Those 
mediaeval  knights  are  men  to  look  at  with  a  sigh.  Men  de 
void  of  aches,  and  pains,  and  dyspepsias  ;  men  without 


CHIVALEY.  169 

nervous  headaches  :  men  to  whom  coddling  and  "  soothing" 
were  not  indispensable.  Alas  !  there  are  no  duplicates  of 
this  picture  among  the  men  of  our  day  ;  and  the  negative 
was  not  preserved. 

Then  there  is  a  quality  of  mind  to  match  this  physical 
attribute  which  cannot  be  restored  by  any  modern  process — 
the  quality  of  unconsciousness  of  self ;  lack  of  that  essen 
tial  ubiquity,  self,  which  our  refinements  of  analysis  and 
vivisection  have  fastened,  like  an  "  eating  lichen,"  to  the 
thought  of  all  thinkers  ;  that  critical  detective  which  un 
ceasingly  attends  our  footsteps,  never  letting  down  his  watch. 
The  places  that  we  moderns  tread  are  vastly  finer  than  those 
barren  rooms  of  the  mediae vals.  Our  feet  sink  deep  in  soft 
Axminster,  and  our  spacious  parlors  are  crowded  with  every 
possible  and  impossible  appointment  for  use,  and  luxury, 
and  enervation.  We  look  down  upon  the  owners  of  those 
rude  oak-raftered  halls,  wherein  was  only  board  and  bench. 
But  our  magnificent  apartments  are  everywhere  hung  with 
mirrors.  Every  article  is  a  reflector,  and  nowhere  can  the 
opulent  occupant  look  that  he  can  fail  to  see  his  own  image. 
We  are  ever  in  the  custody  of  self-officered  police,  and 
cannot  forget  ourselves  long  enough  to  breathe  freely. 
They — the  medirevals,  the  unencumbered — they  were  free  ! 
strong,  simple-minded  children,  unspoiled  by  "notice." 
A  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  would  have  been  an  impossibility 
among  these  open-air  men  of  deeds  ;  but  could  he  have  ex 
isted,  he  could  never,  in  those  times,  have  had  his  Boswell  ! 

Nay,  take  this  mediaeval  knight,  with  his  physical  perfec 
tions,  his  unconsciousness  of  self,  his  picturesque  costume, 
his  gentle  mien,  his  powerful  carriage,  his  knightly  court 
esy,  "  expressing,"  says  llallam,  "  the  most  highly  refined 


170       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

good  breeding,  founded  less  on  the  knowledge  of  ceremoni- 
ous  politeness — though  that  was  not  to  be  omitted — than  on 
the  spontaneous  modesty  and  self-denial  and  respect  for 
others  which  ought  to  spring  from  the  heart  ;"  with  that 
inviolable  faith  toward  all,  which  made  of  every  knight  a 
Regulus,  and  we  have  a  picture  of  a  man  of  such  propor 
tions  that,  "  taken  for  all  in  all,  we  ne'er  shall  look  upon 
his  like  again."  Something  better  we  shall  see  and  do  see, 
yet  not  the  same.  "  Never,  never  more,"  says  Burke, 
"shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  arid  sex, 
that  proud  submission,  that  dignified  obedience,  that  subor 
dination  of  heart  which  kept  alive,  even  in  servitude  itself, 
the  spirit  of  an  exalted  freedom  ;  .  .  .  that  sensibility  of 
principle,  that  chastity  of  honor  which  felt  a  stain  like  a 
wound,  which  inspired  courage  while  it  mitigated  ferocity, 
which  ennobled  whatever  it  touched.  .  .  .  Chivalry,  the 
unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence  of  nations,  the 
nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic  enterprise  !" 


III. 


And  now  the  childish  treble  of  that  ubiquitous  little 
Peterkin,  the  enfant  terrible  to  historians,  breaks  in  with 
the  question,  sometimes  so  embarrassing  to  us  Kaspars, 

"  But  what  good  came  of  it  ?" 

The  benefits  which  such  an  institution,  founded  upon 
suck  principles,  must  necessarily  have  conferred  upon 


CHIVALRY.  171 

society  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  immediately  subsequent 
times,  must  be  readily  inferred  from  what  has  gone  before 
in  this  very  imperfect  sketch.  We  have  seen  that  this 
institution  was  the  embryo  of  modern  military  discipline 
and  tactic,  and  the  beginning  of  a  standing  army  ;  that  it 
afforded  a' school  for  the  exercise  of  manly  virtue  and  the 
formation  of  refined  manners  ;  that  its  interior  ideal,  its 
primitive  mainspring,  lay  in  the  normal  religiousness  of 
man's  nature — an  outcome  of  which  was  the  exaltation  of 
woman.  Hallam  calls  it  "  the  best  school  of  moral  disci 
pline  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  and  this  is  high  praise  from  one 
whom  Lord  Macaulay  calls  the  least  of  a  worshipper  he 
knew.  Still  I  venture  a  step  farther,  and  dare  to  affirm 
that  the  pure  and  simple  creed  of  the  mediaeval  chevalier 
affords  to  all  ages  the  best  formulation  of,  and  that  its  pure 
and  simple  practice  affords  the  best  illustration  of,  the 
natural  religion  of  humanity  ;  and  this  is  as  much  and 
something  more  than  a  moral  discipline.  To  us  moderns, 

"  Heirs  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time," 

a  glance  backward  toward  this  phenomenon  of  the  times  we 
are  accustomed  to  call  dark  is,  or  should  be,  useful.  It  is 
good  for  us  to  turn  the  yellow  leaves  of  time's  herbarium 
and  look  upon  this  faded  mediaeval  bloom,  howbeit  our 
nineteenth-century  hothouse  cultures  can  far  outvie  the  lone 
wild- flower  of  the  past.  We  have  indeed  the  needle-gun 
and  mitrailleuse  where  they  had  lances  ;  we  have  churches, 
one  for  every  dozen  worshippers,  where  they  had  a  dozen 
monasteries  for  a  nation  ;  we  have  schools,  one  apiece  for 
every  boy  and  girl,  where  they  had  one  university  for  an 
empire  ;  we  have  Tyndalls  and  Huxleys  to  scatter  broadcast 


172  GEORGE    ELIOT'S    POETKY,    AND    OTHEB    STUDIES. 

science  (exact  or  otherwise)  where  kings  and  scholars  in 
mediaeval  times  had  but  the  rudiments  of  each  ;  we  have 
Moodys  and  Sankeys  and  Salvation  Armies  where  they 
had  mendicant  friars  and  barefooted  pilgrims  ;  we  have 
summer  schools  of  philosophy  and  religion  where  they  had 
blind  and  bloody  Crusades  ;  Swinburnes  and  Walt  Whit 
mans  refine  and  clarify  our  poetic  senses  in  place  of  their 
rude  troubadours  and  minstrels — all  this  and  immeasurably 
more  we  have  in  our  day  over  the  Sodoms  and  Gomorrahs 
of  their  day.  And  for  all  this  gigantic  aggregation  of  cult 
ure,  and  science,  and  art — for  all  the  accumulations  of  these 
successive  centuries  wherein  we  have 

"  Kansacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes," 

how  as  pigmies  to  giants,  in  point  of  moral  altitude,  should 
most  of  us  compare  with  these  unschooled  mediaevals  '  No 
need  to  make  a  comment  here.  Our  morning  papers  bring 
us  all  we  need,  with  their  long,  black  list  of  betrayed  trusts, 
of  cowardice,  of  falsehood,  of  political  intrigue.  And  if 
the  velvet  curtain  that  backgrounds  our  "  best  society"  but 
rise  a  little,  ah  me  !  what  skeletons  dance  behind  the  scene  ! 
When  in  our  arrogant  nineteenth-century  hearts  we  shall 
have  fully  apprehended  the  truth  that  intellectual  accumu 
lation  is  not  moral  attainment  ;  that  civilization  is  not  Chris 
tianity  ;  that  culture  is  not  character  ;  that,  however  lit  up 
by  the  blazing  chandeliers  of  science,  and  culture,  and  art 
which  swing  from  our  frescoed  ceilings  in  place  of  that  sin 
gle  star  of  chivalry  which  beamed  down  through  the  rafters 
to  the  mediaeval  chevalier,  we  have  not,  therefore,  gained 
one  particle  the  more  illumination  of  soul — then,  indeed, 
we  shall  not  disdain  to  turn  our  proud  faces  backward,  and 


CHIVALRY.  173 

learn  how  to  salt  our  unsavory  knowledge  with  the  wisdom 
of  time's  children,  the  creed  of  the  chevalier  ! 

And  while  we  gain  for  ourselves  one  good  thing  from  the 
backward  glance,  let  us  add  to  it  another.  While  we  are 
learning  to  respect  mediaeval  humanity,  let  us  try  to 
strengthen  our  faith  in  modern  humanity  as  well.  In  our 
reaction  from  our  own  century,  let  us  not  join  the  ranks  of 
those  few  eminent  persons,  and  those  many  persons  who  de 
sire  to  be  eminent,  who  seem  to  find  it  necessary  to  do  injus 
tice  to  the  present  in  order  to  do  justice  to  the  past. 

Let  us  not  cry  with  Sir  Bedivere  : 

"  Oh,  my  Lord  Arthur,  whither  shall  I  go  ? 
Where  shall  I  hide  my  forehead  and  my  eyes  ? 
For  now  I  see  the  true  old  times  are  dead 
When  every  morning  brought  a  noble  chance, 
And  every  chance  brought  out  a  noble  knight. 
Such  times  have  been  not  since  the  light  that  led 
The  holy  elders,  with  the  gift  of  myrrh. 
But  now  the  whole  round  table  is  dissolved 
Which  was  an  image  of  a  mighty  world  ; 
And  I,  the  last,  go  forth  companionless, 
And  the  days  darken  round  me  and  the  years 
Among  new  men,  strange  faces,  other  minds."— 

But  let  us  answer  with  Arthur  : 

"  The  old  order  changeth,  yieldeth  place  to  new, 
And  God  fulfils  Himself  in  many  ways, 
Lest  one  good  custom  should  corrupt  the  world. 
Comfort  thyself —what  comfort  is  in  me  ? 
I  have  lived  my  life,  and  that  which  I  have  done 
May  He  within  Himself  make  pure  1" 

Ilium  futi  !  and  Anchises,  and  Priam,  and  Hector  !  But 
let  us  bethink  ourselves  also  that  J£neas  was,  and  the  Lavi- 


174  GEORGE    ELIOT  8    POETRY,    AND    OTHER    STUDIES. 

nian  shores,  and  the  lofty  walls  of  Rome  ;  and  as  we  look 
around  us  on  our  Western  lands — Lavinian  shores  on  which 
many  modern  knights  draw  consecrated  lances — let  us  ac 
knowledge  that  "  there  is  a  spirit  in  man" — man,  the  man 
of  Egypt,  the  man  of  Hellas,  the  man  of  the  Tiber,  the 
man  of  history,  the  man  of  to-day — a  spirit  breathed  into 
him  with  God's  own  breath,  which  makes  grand  and 
alrous  deeds  possible  in  every  age. 

"  Mother  Earth  !  are  the  heroes  dead  ? 

Do  they  thrill  the  soul  of  the  years  no  more  ? 
Are  the  gleaming  snows  and  the  poppies  red 

All  that  is  left  of  the  brave  of  yore  ? 
Are  there  none  to  fight  as  Theseus  fought, 

Far  in  the  young  world's  misty  dawn  ? 
Or  to  teach  as  the  gray  haired  Nestor  taught? 

Mother  Earth  !  are  the  heroes  gone  ? 

"  Gone  ?    In  a  grander  form  they  rise  ; 

Dead  ?    We  may  clasp  their  hands  in  ours  ; 
And  catch  the  light  of  their  clearer  eyes, 

And  wreathe  their  brows  with  immortal  flowers. 
Wherever  a  noble  deed  is  done 

Tis  the  pulse  of  a  hero's  heart  is  stirred  ; 
Wherever  Right  has  a  triumph  won 

There  are  the  heroes'  voices  heard. 

••  Their  armor  rings  on  a  fairer  field 

Than  the  Greek  and"  the  Trojan  fiercely  trod, 
For  Freedom's  sword  is  the  blade  they  wield, 

And  the  light  above  is  the  smile  of  God. 
So,  in  his  isle  of  calm  delight, 

Jason  may  sleep  the  years  away  ; 
For  the  heroes  live,  and  the  sky  is  bright, 

And  the  world  is  a  braver  world  to-day." 


From  Past  fen  La  Pagr't  CeMrattd  T 
JEANNE    ENTEND    SES    VOIX    CELESTES. 


JOAN   OF  AEG. 

IN  the  century  which  the  year  1428  completed,  all  the 
adverse  fates  had  conspired  with  the  Plantagenet  purpose 
to  extinguish  France.  In  1328,  at  the  death  of  the  last 
Capet,  Edward  III.,  of  England,  rose  up  before  the  peers 
of  France  with  his  egregious  claim  for  the  French  crown. 
A  clever  twisting  of  some  loose  strands  in  the  cordage  of 
the  Salic  law  served  for  a  pretext  to  contest  his  claim 
against  the  clearer  claim  of  Philip  of  Valois.  The  grand 
son  with  his  might  drew  up  before  the  cousin  with  his 
right,  and  then  commenced  that  century  of  war  which 
made  France  the  bloodless,  nerveless  thing  we  find  her  at 
this  first  quarter  of  the  fifteenth  century.  At  Cressy  and 
at  Poitiers,  and  in  divers  lesser  fields,  the  chivalry  of 
France  was  mowed  by  English  steel.  The  frightful  horrors 
of  Calais  unnerved  the  nation.  And  yet,  like  the  heroic 
citizens  of  Calais,  all  France  held  out  against  the  life-long 
siege  which  Edward  III.  pressed  round  the  kingdom — held 
out  until  death  conquered  the  besieger  and  succored  the 
besieged. 

But  in  this  century,  between  Edward  III.  of  England 
and  Henry  V.  of  England,  not  war  alone,  but  pestilence 
and  famine — those  steadfast  handmaids  of  Bellona — con 
spired  against  the  life  of  France.  The  temple  of  Janus 
for  one  hundred  years  was  not  closed,  and  the  box  of 
Pandora  discharged  itself  of  every  evil  on  the  unhappy 


178       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

realm.  A  pestilence  unprecedented  in  the  annals  of  pesti 
lences,  and  caused  by  the  presence  of  so  many  dead  lying 
nnburied,  by  reason  of  the  Pope's  interdict,  in  numberless 
battle-fields  over  Europe,  swept  the  south  of  France,  carry 
ing  off  two  out  of  every  three  of  the  inhabitants.  The 
shadow  of  this  black  death  fell  everywhere.  Ships  rocked 
and  drifted  at  sea,  unmanned  save  by  this  pale  pirate,  whose 
touch  had  laid  crews  and  passengers  lifeless  at  their  posts. 

Increasing  the  terror  of  the  people,  a  wild  fanaticism 
became  also  epidemic.  Bands  of  half-crazed  persons, 
clothed  in  white,  wound  in  and  out  of  the  death-darkened 
villages  of  France,  beating  their  breasts  and  chanting  sup 
plications,  throwing  themselves  on  the  ground,  confessing 
their  sins,  and  leaving  everywhere  apprehension  and  dis 
may,  and  the  echo  of  their  moaning  prayer  : 

"  Nun  hebet  auf  cure  Hande 

Dass  Gott  dies  Grosse  sterben  wende 
Nun  hebet  auf  cure  Hande 
Dass  sich  Gott  iiber  uns  erbarme  !" 

These  fanatics  and  others  akin  to  them  had  great  influence 
with,  the  people.  And  they  had  the  people  all  to  them 
selves,  for  the  educated  clergy  stood  aloof. 

Religion  was  feeble  ;  superstition  rampant.  The  Church 
had  no  coherence  ;  the  state  no  support.  The  kings  of 
France  were  beaten,  and  discrowned,  and  imprisoned. 
Their  dukes  deserted  the  royal  standard,  and  made  war 
among  themselves. 

The  houses  of  Burgundy  and  Orleans  sent  their  subtle 
foxes  running  through  the  land  with  firebrands  of  civil 
war.  In  1418  a  massacre  of  the  Armagnacs  by  the  Bur- 


JOAN    OF    ABC.  179 

gundians  took  place  in  Paris — a  massacre  without  a  parallel 
in  all  the  massacre-tilled  pages  of  French  history  until  the 
Revolution,  says  Hallam,  in  spite  of  St.  Bartholomew. 

In  1358  the  peasantry,  stung  into  self-defence,  reared 
their  bruised  heads  against  the  oppressive  Yalois  heel  with 
cobra  virulence,  and  the  Jacquerie  of  the  fourteenth  cen 
tury  of  French  history  set  the  type  for  the  Jacobins  of  the 
eighteenth. 

Des  Serres  thus  represents  the  state  of  France  at  the 
conclusion  of  this  century  :  "  In  sooth,  the  estate  of  France 
was  most  miserable.  There  appeared  nothing  but  a  horri 
ble  face,  confusion,  poverty,  desolation,  solitarinesse  and 
feare.  The  lean  and  bare  laborers  in  the  country  did  ter 
rify  even  theeves  themselves,  who  had  nothing  left  to  spoil 
but  the  carkasses  of  these  poor,  miserable  creatures,  wan 
dering  up  and  down  like  ghosts  drawn  out  of  their  graves. 
.  .  .  The  least  farms  and  hamlets  were  fortified  by 
these  robbers,  English,  Bourguignons,  and  French,  every 
one  striving  to  do  his  worst  ;  all  men  of  warre  were  well 
agreed  to  spoile  the  countryman  and  the  merchant.  Even 
the  catell,  accustomed  to  the  larume  bell,  the  signe  of  the 
enemy's  approach,  would  run  home  of  themselves,  without 
any  guide,  by  this  accustomed  misery."  Petrarch,  visiting 
France  in  this  century,  thus  describes  it  :  "  Nothing  pre 
sented  itself  to  my  eyes  but  a  fearful  solitude,  an  extreme 
poverty,  lands  uncultivated,  houses  in  ruins.  Even  the 
neighborhood  of  Paris  manifested  everywhere  marks  of 
destrnction  and  conflagration.  The  streets  are  deserted, 
the  roads  overgrown  with  weeds,  the  whole  is  a  vast  soli 
tude."  It  is  said  that  the  city  of  Paris  was  so  solitary  and 
neglected  that  in  successive  years  wolves  entered  the  city 


180       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

through  the  river  and  devoured  and  wounded  a  number  of 
persons. 

Thus  had  the  fates  conspired  with  the  Plantagenet 
purpose  and  prepared  the  way  for  Henry  Y.  — a  second 
Edward  III. — to  propose  the  treaty  which  should  secure  to 
himself  and  his  posterity  the  throne  of  France.  With 
incredible  arrogance,  in  1420  this  great  King  of  England 
promised  an  adjustment  of  all  difficulties  between  France 
and  England  upon  the  basis  of  the  famous  treaty  of  Troyes. 
He  said  :  "I  will  take  now  the  Princess  Catherine  for  a 
wife  and  the  regency  of  France  ;  and  at  the  death  of  the 
king  I  will  succeed  to  his  crown  and  his  kingdom,  and 
join  them  to  my  crown  and  my  kingdom,  to  be  mine  and 
my  posterity's  forever.  In  return  for  so  much,  I  will  put 
my  sword  into  the  scabbard,  and  let  you,  Queen  Isabella, 
have  your  amours  and  your  intrigues  undisturbed,  and  you, 
Burgundy,  have  your  vengeance  on  Orleans,  since  that 
serves  my  cause  as  well." 

With  incredible  dishonesty  the  debased  queen  and  re 
morseless  duke  signed,  over  the  imbecile  old  head  of  Charles 
VI.,  the  treaty  which  gave  his  crown  and  kingdom  to 
the  Plantagenet  posterity,  and  made  France  a  colony  of 
England.  With  incredible  pusillanimity  a  balance  of  the 
peers  of  France  acceded  to  the  treaty.  And  now,  in  the 
year  1420,  Henry  V.  of  England  is  Regent  of  France, 
absolute  ruler  of  all  the  realm  north  of  the  Loire.  With 
haughty  confidence  he  awaits  the  imminent  hour  when  the 
old  baby  king  shall  totter  off  the  stage  and  leave  him,  in 
name,  and  fame,  and  full  possession,  that  to  which  he  holds 
this  marvellous  title-deed.  No  matter  that  this  deed  is  by 
all  law  null  and  void  ;  no  matter  that  the  thing  conveyed 


JOAN    OF    ARC.  181 

was  not  the  property  of  the  conveyors.  What  the  pen  has 
traced  in  ink  will  suffice  until  the  sword  can  superscribe  in 
blood  !  Might,  might  !  that  is  Henry's  ;  he  will  make  it 
right. 

Thus  two  years  pass,  and  in  1422  the  prize  seems  nearer. 
"  Almost  mine  !"  says  the  Plantagenet  proposer.  "Never 
thine"  says  the  Divine  Disposer.  Suddenly,  unheralded, 
the  conqueror  of  Henry  Y.  rises  into  view.  A  pale 
cavalier,  all  unweaponed  and  unattended,  meets  him  in  the 
way.  No  need  to  call  thy  mighty  men,  Plantagenet  !  No 
need  to  raise  that  whetted  sword  of  thine  !  No  challenge 
here  to  prove  thy  dauntless  courage  or  thy  knightly 
courtesy.  This  battle  will  be  bloodless.  This  foe  is  not  a 
Frenchman.  He  will  say  no  word,  nor  urge  a  claim,  nor 
draw  a  sword.  He  will  but  look  thee  in  the  face,  will 
beckon  thee,  will  turn  his  steed,  and  thou  wilt  follow  him. 
And  where  he  leads  thou  wilt  not  wear  the  wedded  crown 
of  France  and  England  !  Well,  death  thus  gives  the 
unplanned-for  cue,  and  Henry,  who  would  be  manager, 
makes  the  first  exit.  Two  months  later  the  summons 
comes  for  Charles,  and  the  old  imbecile  King  of  France 
totters  off  the  stage.  And  now  we  watch  for  a  speedy 
denouement  of  this  dark  drama  which  the  adverse  fates 
have  plotted  for  a  hundred  years  against  the  realm  of 
France. 

But  we  watch  in  vain.  The  tragedy  moves  on.  When 
Henry  died  he  left  Plantagenets  behind  to  carry  on  his  r6le. 
The  regent  dukes  of  England  unrolled  the  Troyes  treaty 
and  shook  it  haughtily,  defiantly,  in  the  face  of  France. 
The  Duke  of  Bedford  took  the  paper  in  one  hand  and  the 
infant  heir  of  Henry  in  the  other,  and  pronounced  him  at 


182       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

Paris  Henry  VI.,  King  of  France  and  England.  And  ail 
the  swords  of  England  stood  behind,  flanked  by  Burgundy's 
steel. 

The  Dauphin,  third  son  of  Charles  VI.  of  France,  alike 
proclaimed,  b}7  his  few  and  feeble  adherents  in  the  south, 
King  of  France,  lurked  timorously  around,  fearing  the 
shadow  of  his  royalty.  There  was  no  King  of  France,  and 
there  was  no  France  for  a  king.  And  so  it  went  for  seven 
years.  Henry,  King  of  France,  and  Charles,  King  of 
France,  and  no  France,  and  no  king  ! 

But  the  fates  were  brewing,  and  some  shape  must  soon 
emerge  from  out  this  steaming  caldron.  One  or  the  other 
of  the  contesting  forces  must  prevail,  and  that  right  soon. 

The  odds  were  fearfully  in  England's  favor.  Henry  VI. 
of  England  was  now,  though  but  a  child,  a  king  in  his 
own  right.  His  nobility  were  skilful,  and  courageous, 
and  ambitious  ;  his  yeomanry  invincible  ;  his  cause  so 
popular  that  recruits  flocked  to  his  standard  from  every 
quarter. 

Charles  VII.  of  France,  in  full  manhood,  was  but  a  child 
in  character — a  timorous,  self-indulgent  trifler,  fooling,  flirt 
ing,  feeding  in  the  corner  there  at  Chinon ;  his  forces 
inadequate,  his  cavalry  thinned  by  English  lances,  his  peas 
antry  by  scythes  of  pestilence  and  famine  ;  his  only  allies 
Scotchmen,  scant  and  hard  to  get  at  any  price  ;  his  finances 
so  low  that  no  inducement  could  be  offered  to  the  poorest 
of  his  subjects  in  his  battle-fields.  For  the  loan  of  six  thou 
sand  men  Charles  offered  a  province  to  the  King  of  Scot 
land.  Comines,  a  historian  contemporary  with  this  king, 
relates  how  he — the  king — having  tried  on  a  pair  of  boots, 
told  the  shoemaker  that  he  had  no  money  to  pay  for  them. 


JOAN   OF   ARC.  183 

But  neither  loyalty  nor  royalty  compelled  the  thrifty  Crispin 
to  present  to  his  sovereign  the  necessary  boots,  or  to  give 
him  credit  for  future  pay.  He  chose  the  safer  way,  and 
kept  the  boots,  while  His  Majesty  went  slipshod  !  With  no 
kingdom,  no  subjects,  no  money,  no  manhood,  and — no 
boots — naught  could  this  little  Frenchman  do  but  turn 
away  from  such  unpleasantness  to  seek  a  more  congenial 
programme  in  the  boudoir  of  Sorel.  "  Sire,"  said  a  cour 
tier  to  him,  "  I  do  not  believe  it  possible  that  one  should 
lose  a  kingdom  with  greater  gayety  !" 

Here,  then,  is  the  kingdom  of  Charlemagne,  whose 
boundaries,  six  hundred  years  before,  were  the  Vistula 
joining  the  Danube  on  the  east,  the  Ebro  and  the 
Atlantic  Ocean  on  the  west,  the  Mediterranean  on  the 
south,  the  Baltic  Sea  on  the  north,  reduced  to  a  varying 
quantity  below  the  river  Loire  !  "  Our  Henry  V.,"  boasts 
Disraeli,  "  had  reduced  the  kingdom  of  France  to  the  town 
of  Bourges  !" 

And  thus  much  only  remaining  French,  what  power  shall 
prevent  the  whole  realm  from  becoming  to  England  what 
Canada  is  to-day  ?  what  Cuba  is  to  Spain  ? — what  power 
shall  arise  to  preserve  for  the  nineteenth  century  the 
French  feather  of  French  genius,  the  bite  of  French  wit, 
the  flavor  of  French  character,  the  winey  'bouqiiet  of  French 
literature,  the  esprit,  the  verve,  the  je  ne  sais  quoi,  all 
unmatched  and  unmatchable,  unmixed  and  unmixable, 
with  which  France  has  spiced  the  world  ?  Consider  the 
conclusion — how  lame,  how  impotent — had  the  ether  of 
French  intellect  become  incorporated  in  the  solid  fibre  of 
English  intellect !  Guizot  reduced  to  Macaulay  ;  two  Car- 
lyles  in  place  of  one  Carlyle  and  one  Hugo  ;  two  bloody 


184       GEOEGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

Marys  in  place  of  one  bloody  Mary  and  one  bloody  Medici  ; 
two  Henry  VIlI.s  instead  of  one  great  Henry  Tudor 
and  one  great  Henry  Bourbon ;  two  Marlboroughs  in 
stead  of  one  tremendous  Maryborough  and  one  tremen 
dous  Bonaparte  ;  two  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagus  in 
stead  of  one  Lady  Mary  and  one  De  Stae'l ;  all  beef — no 
poulet !  Human  nature  without  the  top-dressing  of  French' 
nature  ! 

It  is  the  October  of  the  year  1428.  Upon  the  dolorous 
disk  of  France  is  darkness  everywhere,  with  little  difference 
in  degree.  Yet  as  we  strain  our  vision  a  deeper  shade 
blackens  in  one  direction,  as  if  the  pall  of  death  were  about 
there  to  drop. 

The  city  of  Orleans  was  an  ancient  stronghold  of  the 
realm.  When  the  King  of  France  was  scarcely  more  than 
one  among  his  lords,  in  the  feudal  ages  of  its  history, 
when,  as  king,  he  held  two  counties,  perhaps,  when  his 
lords  held  one  each — himself  a  count  a  trifle  lordlier  than 
his  subject  counts — Orleans  was  always  one  of  the  king's 
counties.  And  the  city  was  the  centre  of  the  county. 
By  this  fifteenth  century  the  city  of  Orleans  had  acquired 
great  importance  and  accumulated  great  wealth.  The  city 
site  was  on  the  north  bank  of  the  Loire,  but  its  suburbs 
made  an  annex  city — like  a  Brooklyn  to  New  York — on  the 
south  side.  A  massive  bridge  ran  across  and  bound  the 
two  together. 

The  English,  advancing  from  the  north,  were  building 
ponderous  bastiles  or  forts — gigantic  posts  of  a  fence  to 
which  their  numerous  forces  were  the  living  rails — around 
the  land  side  of  the  city.  This  completed,  all  escape  was 
made  impossible  from  the  north  side  of  the  besieged  town. 


JOAN   OF   ABC.  185 

But  to  preserve  means  of  egress  from  the  city  for  them- 
selves  was  less  important  to  the  besieged  than  that  the 
besiegers  should  lack  means  of  ingress  to  the  city.  The 
Orleanais  destroyed  the  arch  that  connected  the  towers  on 
the  bridge  across  to  suburban  Orleans,  and  if  there  was  no 
getting  out  for  the  French,  neither  was  there  any  getting 
in  for  the  English.  But  while  they  thus  destroy  their 
southern  means  of  escape,  the  English  are  drilling  in  the 
last  bastile  that  encloses  them  upon  the  north.  And  now 
what  remains  for  Orleans  but  fire,  famine,  flood,  x>r — 
surrender?  Upon  these  massive  city  walls,  hoar  and 
honorable,  with  many  a  foe  resisted  since  a  thousand  years 
and  more,  when  Attila  and  his  terrible  Huns  hammered  on 
its  gates,  is  written — by  no  invisible  scribe,  but  with  the 
whetted  point  of  English  swords — the  mene,  mene  of  its 
doom. 

We  hear  much  of  the  hour  and  the  man.  Surely  now 
and  here,  if  ever  in  history,  is  the  hour.  But  where  is  the 
man  ? 

The  eyes  of  all  men  turn  to  Orleans.  Of  all  men  ;  but 
another  eye  looks  down  upon  another  spot,  and  hither  the 
inexplicable  Genius  of  History  bids  us  go  with  her. 

A  strange  irrelevance,  this  scene  on  which  she  bids  us 
look  !  What  can  these  sloping  hills  of  Domremy,  these 
trilling  streams,  these  low-roofed  cottages,  have  to  do  with 
that  fated  city  ?  The  little  shepherd  girl  who  sits  beneath 
the  great  tree  in  the  doorway  yonder,  what  can  her  rapt, 
romantic,  saintly  face  have  of  importance  to  thee,  O  destiny 
of  men  and  nations  ? 

But  the  Genius  makes  no  response  except  to  bid  us  nearer 
to  these  pastoral  frivolities,  this  dreaming  shepherd  girl. 


186        GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

We  see  her  wander  up  and  down  the  gentle  slopes, 
peering  with  eyes  that  see  beyond  our  vision  into  the  great 
oak  forest,  or  listening  to  sounds  we  cannot  hear  beneath 
the  fairy  tree.  We  see  her  spring  with  lithe,  intrepid 
grace  upon  the  horses  of  the  farm,  and  mounted,  like  a 
soldier,  make  all  the  thrusts  and  passes  of  a  knight 
preparing  for  the  fray.  We  see  her  sitting  silent,  while 
her  skilful  fingers  ply  her  needle  at  the  humble  fireside, 
in  that  early  winter  of  1428,  listening  to  tales  of  the  dis 
tress  of  France,  the  siege  of  Orleans,  the  imminent  crisis 
of  the  kingdom's  fate  which  the  roving  bands  of  Charles' 
adherents  bring  to  Domremy.  AV^e  see  her,  "  about  the 
hour  of  noon,  in  summer-time,"  in  her  father's  garden, 
and  we  see  a  kindling  in  that  innocent  eye,  a  purpose  in 
that  girlish  face.  And  she  tells  us  that  a  voice  of  God 
comes  to  her,  and  with  the  voices  a  bright  light  shines. 
And  often  she  hears  the  voice  and  sees  the  light ;  and  St. 
Michael,  and  St.  Margaret,  and  St.  Catherine  appear  to  her, 
in  a  halo  of  glory,  their  heads  crowned  with  jewels,  their 
voices  mild  and  sweet.  She  hears  them  when  the  bells  are 
sounding  for  the  hour  of  prayer.  She  hears  the  voices 
in  the  forest  also,  and  at  many  times  and  places,  and  they 
speak  so  soothingly  that  she  kneels  and  weeps  because 
they  do  not  take  her  with  them  back  to  Paradise.  But 
the  voices  say  she  must  stay  and  save  France  from  the 
ruin  that  impends.  And,  by  and  by,  when  tidings  come 
of  the  distress  of  Orleans,  of  the  dauphin's  helplessness, 
of  the  invincible  strength  of  the  English,  of  the  swift  ap 
proach  to  Orleans  of  doom  from  which  there  is  none  to  de 
liver  in  all  that  stricken  realm,  the  voices  bid  her  up  !  and 
herself  go  forth  to  rescue  France  ! 


JO  AH    OF   ABC.  187 

And  while  we  curl  our  lips  at  this  wild  ranting  of  the 
half-mad  shepherd  girl  and  turn  to  go  our  way  to  Orleans, 
where  the  hour  wanes  and  all  hearts  wait,  with  hope  against 
hope,  for  the  man — the  hand  of  destiny  unclasps  from  ours, 
and,  with  inexorable  finger,  points  to  the  girlish  figure,  and 
amid  the  protests  of  our  impatient  scorn  we  hear  the  voice 
that  none  may  question  saying  to  her :  iiThou  art  the 
man  /" 

It  is  the  25th  of  April,  1429.  The  pall  is  just  about  to 
drop  on  Orleans.  An  instant  yet  remains  before  the  Eng 
lish  have  filled  in  the  last  rail  to  the  living  fence  which 
bristles  round  the  place  ;  an  instant  ere  the  last  Plantag- 
cnet  sword  is  wedged  into  the  last  loophole  of  escape ; 
an  instant  of  the  hour  yet  awaits  the  coming  of  the  man. 
The  beats  of  time  strike  like  funeral  peals  and  chime  with 
the  heart-throbs  of  the  Orleanais.  French  breaths  are  held 
and  French  arms  are  paralyzed  with  fear.  Even  little  King 
Charles,  the  spaniel,  trips  it  heavily  behind  the  skirts  of 
Agnes  Sorel,  in  his  squalid  little  court  at  Chinon. 

As  we  gaze  upon  the  scene  in  this  moment  of  suspense, 
while  the  darkness  deepens  to  extinction — in  the  very 
article  of  fatal  asphyxia — the  wondrous  transformation 
comes.  The  peerless  panoramist  slides  suddenly  before  us 
the  next  scene  in  the  spectacle — a  scene  we  all  know  well. 

We  saw  that  shining  face  lifted  to  the  skies  of  Dom- 
remy.  Wo  behold  that  slight,  intrepid  figure,  mounted 
now  upon  a  fiery  war-horse,  wielding  now  a  glittering 
sword.  It  is  the  little  peasant  maid  who  wears  that 
fifty  pounds  of  burnished  steel  with  such  a  knightly 
grace.  The  head  is  without  helmet,  and  the  raven  ringlets 
float  out  to  the  air  ;  the  face,  uncovered,  reveals  the  samo 


188        GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

rapt  countenance,  upon  the  battle-field,  we  saw  beneath  the 
tree  within  the  door-yard.  We  all  behold  that  gorgeous 
banner  of  white  satin  strewn  with  the  French  lilies,  on 
which  the  figure  of  a  conqueror  in  glory  shines,  above  the 
v  words  which  flame  beneath,  Jesus  Maria  !  This  held  in 
one  of  those  girlish  hands,  and  in  the  other  the  consecrated 
lance,  marked  with  the  crosses  of  St.  Catherine.  "We  all 
know  the  doer  and  the  deed  !  No  need  to  tell  the  oft-told 
tale,  which  set  forth  in  the  soberest  hues  of  fact,  yet  seems 
to  waking  sense  most  like  a  wildest  dream  of  fancy ;  no 
need  to  repeat  the  story  of  the  old  chronicler  Hall — the 
English  historian  of  that  day — who  tells  how  "  Pucelle, 
with  French  capitaine,  in  the  dedde  tyme  of  ye  night,  and 
in  a  great  rayne  and  thundere,  entered  into  the  citie." 
"We  all  know  what  followed  on  this  entrance,  which  the 
Duke  of  Bedford  thus  reports  to  his  sovereign,  Henry  VI. : 

"  There  felle,  by  the  hand  of  God,  as  it  seemeth,  a  grete 
stroke  upon  your  people  that  was  there  (before  Orleans) 
assembled,  in  grete  nombre,  caused,  in  grete  partie,  as  of 
trowe  of  lakke  of  sadde  beleve  and  of  unlevefulle  doubt 
that  they  hadde  of  a  disciple  and  lyme  of  the  Feende  called 
the  Pucelle,  that  used  fals  enchantments  and  sorcerie." 

We  all  know  how  the  little  King  Charles,  the  spaniel, 
trotted  forth  to  Rheims,  and  with  royal  condescension  took 
from  the  peasant  girl  the  crown  and  throne  of  France  ; 
we  all  know  how  this  little  hand  of  muckle  might,  laid  on 
the  rusty  crank,  set  in  swift  revolution  the  wheel  of 
France's  fortune  ;  how  the  treacherous  Burgundy  turned 
from  his  allegiance  with  the  English  and  returned  to  stand 
by  Charles  ;  how  thus  the  left  hand  clasped  the  right  and 
grew  again  to  the  dismembered  body  of  the  empire  ;  how 


JOAN    OF    ABC.  189 

that  empire  convalesced  and  grew  to  giant  stature  in  the 
years  to  come. 

Had  I  the  ability  to  narrate  the  story  of  Joan  of  Arc 
worthily,  I  could  scarcely  have  the  heart  to  add  one  more 
to  the  long  list  of  poems,  and  romances,  and  histories 
which,  from  a  Shakespeare,  a  Southey,  and  a  Schiller,  to 
the  prize  essayists  and  the  undergraduates,  have  accumu 
lated  since  the  fifteenth  century.  Yet  had  I  such  desire, 
it  could  not  take  much  time  or  great  space  to  tell  the  round, 
unvarnished  tale.  Unassisted  by  tradition,  stripped  of 
romance  and  invention,  we  find  'that  a  few  simple,  pictures 
make  the  panorama  of  her  life.  A  little  peasant  maiden 
doing  lowly  service  in  the  cottage  home  at  Domremy  ; 
a  mail-clad  maiden  leading  forth  her  soldiers  from  the  gates 
of  Orleans — two  faithful  feet  on  fagots  at  Rouen — a  ra 
diant  face  uplifted  to  the  beckoning  skies — a  crucifix  up 
held  in  shrivelling,  flame-kissed  hands — a  wreath  of  smoke 
for  shroud,  a  wrack  of  smoke  for  pall,  a  heap  of  ashes, 
and — a  franchised  soul  ! 

There  is  no  figure  in  history  more  incendiary  to  the 
imagination  than  this  of  Joan  of  Arc — not  one  which 
more  enlists  the  energies  of  the  Philistine,  approaching  us 
from  every  quarter  with  demands  that  we  subdue  to  the 
substantial  hues  of  the  historic  imagination,  this  tale,  which 
we  are  predestined  by  him  to  invest  with  the  ethereal  tints 
of  the  poetic  imagination.  The  Philistine's  error  is  always 
in  his  premises.  His  conclusions  are  unassailable,  always 
logical,  therefore  always  wrong,  because  founded  upon 
wrong  premises.  He  frowns  down  the  story  of  Joan  be 
cause  it  shines  and  glows  in  rose-color.  His  error  is  in 
denying  to  history  any  rose-color.  He  starts  with  the 


190       GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETKY,  AND  OTHEK  STUDIES. 

premise  tliat  rose-color  is  of  no  use,  and  ends  with  the 
conclusion  that  there  are  no  roses. 

Now,  a  rose  would  smell  as  sweet  by  any  other  name, 
simply  because  it  must  still  remain  a  rose.  And  a  rose 
has  its  rights  as  well  as  a  cabbage.  The  cabbage-growers 
say  it  does  not  pay  as  well  as  cabbage,  but  all  the  same  the 
rose  is  red,  and  sweet,  and  immortal  !  A  true  story  of  the 
Maid  of  Orleans  will  take  away  many  accessories  with 
which  the  poets  have  invested  her,  but  she  must  still  remain 
a  glowing  rose  in  history,  fair  and  immortal.  We  welcome 
the  Philistine  when  he  brings  us  words  like  these  : 

"  It  is  the  business  -of  history  to  distinguish  between  the  miraculous 
and  the  marvellous  ;  to  reject  the  first  in  all  narrations  merely  profane 
or  human  ;  to  doubt  the  second  ;  and  when  obliged  by  unquestionable 
testimony,  as  in  the  present  case,  to  admit  of  something  extraordinary,  to 
receive  as  little  of  it  as  is  consistent  with  the  known  facts  and  circum 
stances." 

Good,  Mr.  Hume  !  We  are  to  reject  the  miraculous,  to 
doubt  the  marvellous,  and  to  receive  only  as  little  of  the 
extraordinary  as  the  known  facts  and  circumstances  compel 
us  to  !  Very  good.  And  now,  Mr.  Hume,  for  your  defi 
nitions. 

Define  for  us  the  miraculous.  Define  for  us  the  marvel 
lous.  And  when  you  have  given  us  perfect  definitions  of 
these  two,  then  we  will  reject  the  one  and  doubt  the  other, 
and  accept  only  the  extraordinary  ! 

Meanwhile  we  find  to  our  purpose  certain  words  of  old 
Bishop  Butler,  who  had  somewhat  to  say  of  the  extraor 
dinary.  "There  are  two  courses,"  he  said,  "of  nature. 
One  is  the  ordinary,  the  other  the  extraordinary"  It  is 
this  extraordinary  course  of  nature  which  produces  those 


JOAN    OF    ARC.  191 

phenomena  which,  being  out  of  the  common,  are  out  of  our 
sphere,  and  therefore  which  we  are  accustomed  to  call 
supernatural — or  superhuman — a  miracle,  or  a  marvel.  Yet 
they  are  necessarily  neither,  but  only  extraordinary  courses 
of  nature,  outside  of  our  knowledge  of  law,  yet  not,  there 
fore,  outside  the  sphere  of  law.  What  is  law  ?  Trace  it 
link  by  link,  pursue  it  phase  by  phase,  chase  its  shadow 
until  you  find  its  substance,  and  what — who  have  you 
found  ?  You  have  found  God. 

Resolve  the  supernatural.  Find  that  which  is  above 
nature.  Take  your  line  and  measure  nature,  that  you  may 
define  her  limits.  Sweep  your  arc  until  it  is  a  circumscrib 
ing  circumference,  so  that  you  may  perceive  that  which  is 
the  above-nature,  the  beyond-nature.  "What  is  the  measure 
of  your  measure  ?  What  is  the  radius  of  your  circumfer 
ence  ?  Nature,  nature  !  What  have  you  outside  ?  What 
is  there  that  bears  not  the  image  and  superscription,  in  its 
phase  ordinary,  or  its  phase  extraordinary,  of  the  Caesar 
of  the  universe  ?  Who  is  above  this  Caesar  ?  Who  but 
her  maker — God  ?  He  who  fills  nature  and  who  is  nature 
alone  exceeds  nature,  and  is  that  which  nature  is  not. 
What  is  a  miracle  ?  What  is  a  marvel  ?  A  miracle  is  that 
which  comes  about  by  processes  outside  the  sphere  of  our 
observation.  It  is  a  phenomenon  which  is  the  product  of 
that  working  of  law  which  is  beyond  our  knowledge  of  its 
working.  Shall  we  call  it  therefore  a  phenomenon  outside 
of  the  working  of  law  ?  It  is  a  result  from  that  course  of 
nature  which  is  extraordinary.  Shall  we  therefore  call  it 
supernatural  ?  Lamartine  says  of  Joan  of  Arc  :  "  Every 
thing  in  her  life  seems  miraculous,  and  yet  the  miracle  is 
not  in  her  voice,  her  vision,  her  sign,  her  standard,  or  her 


192       GEOKGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

sword,  but  in  herself."  And  yet  I  should  say,  least  of  all, 
"in  herself." 

Nay,  let  us  reject  the  miraculous  theory  of  Joan  of  Arc. 
Let  us  reject  the  marvellous.  Let  us  cling  to  and  claim  for 
her  only  the  extraordinary.  For  in  her  I,  for  my  part,  see 
no  nature  which  1  do  not  see  in  many  a  woman  of  to-day  ; 
but  the  exercise  of  that  nature  we  do  not  often  see.  What, 
then,  were  the  "courses  of  nature"  which  in  her  could 
produce  the  "  extraordinary"  ? 

I  reduce  all  the  miracle,  and  marvel,  and  mystery  of 
Joan's  history  to  the  extraordinary  development  of  one 
human  capacity — love  ;  the  extraordinary  exercise  of  one 
human  capacity — faith. 

Joan's  love  was  extraordinary  because  it  was  not  a  passion 
for  a  person,  but  a  quenchless  passion  of  love  for  a  cause. 
All  the  energy,  and  devotion,  and  credulity,  and  constancy, 
and  jealousy,  and  consuming  passion,  and  triumphant  wor 
ship  that  goes  into  a  woman's  love  for  one  man,  and  that 
makes  it  the  thing  it  is,  went  from  Joan's  soul  into  the 
cause  of  France.  All  that  a  woman  will  endure  for  and  from 
her  lover  or  her  child,  that  did  Joan  endure  for  and  from 
France.  And  this  is  very  extraordinary  ;  strange  and  rare 
in  man — stranger  and  rarer  in  woman.  And  Joan's  faith 
•was  extraordinary — as  is  all  faith,  since  it  is  from  God — a 
gift  rather  than  a  grace.  To  Joan  man  was  as  naught ;  the 
King  of  France  was  the  vicar  of  Heaven.  The  little  '  ''King 
of  Bourges"  was  one  whom  God  had  appointed  governor 
over  this,  His  kingdom,  France.  She,  Joan,  was  a  messen 
ger,  a  missionary.  Faith  fused  at  once  into  obedience. 
How  extraordinary,  how  simple  !  In  this  scientific  age — 
this  age  of  iconoclasm — it  is  greatly  good  for  us  to  confront 


JOAN   OF   ABC.  193 

things  rich,  rare,  out-of-the-common — things  above  our 
power  to  comprehend,  beyond  our  power  to  destroy.  It  is 
well  for  us  who  are  so  blind  to  the  rose-color  in  our  daily 
lives  to  be  forced  to  acknowledge  its  existence  in  the  im 
perishable  canvas  of  history  ;  well  for  us,  so  intensely 
practical  as  we  are,  to  be  compelled  there,  at  least,  to  con 
front  the  romantic  and  the  heroic.  So  only  perhaps  can  we 
be  made  to  believe  in  the  possible  heroic  of  to-day. 

For  the  enduring  quality  in  this  wondrous  figure  of  the 
centuries  is  the  common  quality.  If  1  know  anything  for 
certain  of  the  individual  Joan,  it  is  only  because  I  know 
something  for  certain  of  her  sisters  of  to-day.  I  see, 
indeed,  in  her  some  characteristics  of  her  age  which  must 
tinge  her  character,  and  which,  not  being  characteristics  of 
our  age,  cannot  tinge  ours.  The  monstrous  superstitions 
of  her  times  are  broken  bubbles  of  thin  air  in  our  agnostic 
century.  The  dense  ignorance  of  her  day  cannot  be 
repeated  in  any  after-time.  The  blind  fanaticism  of  that 
age  is  wholly  fled.  And  yet,  superstition,  ignorance,  fanati 
cism,  remain  ;  and  unless  we  can  share  in  this  our  luminous 
century  that  one  priceless  gift  of  God,  which  in  this  poor 
shepherd  girl,  along  with  her  ignorance,  and  superstition, 
and  fanaticism,  was  her  powrer,  and  must  be  our  power,  if 
we  have  any, — then  we  may  well  put  this  complex  age, 
full  of  knowledge  and  discovery,  into  the  balance  against 
that  age,  and  watch  in  vain  for  any  turning  of  the  scales 
in  our  favor.  Faith  !  Faith  !  that  was  Joan's  lever — the 
lever  by  which  that  little  hand  moved  the  world — liter 
ally  moved  the  world,  for  Orleans  was  France,  and  Eng 
land  was  the  world.  Let  no  one  dream  that  Joan  was 
very  clever  ;  let  no  one  dream  that  she  had  military  genius. 


194       GEORGE  ELIOT'S  POETRY,  AND  OTHER  STUDIES. 

Her  power  was  but  the  power  which  many  another  woman 
may  have — the  power  of  a  buoyant,  masterful  faith  in  God, 
in  herself,  in  humanity,  and  a  will  to  come  to  the  rescue. 
It  is  good  to  make  acquaintance  with  her — with  her, 
not  with  some  wretched  travesty  of  her.  For  in  her 
we  contemplate  not  military  genius,  not  surpassing  clever 
ness,  not  superhuman  wisdom  ;  but  we  do,  if  we  will,  con 
template  goodness  and  purity.  And  within  the  folds  of 
these  incontestable  facts  we  may  behold  this  shining 
truth  :  that,  when  the  soul  is  possessed  by  a  great 
purpose,  all  small  and  minor  purposes  are  lost  ;  that  the 
woman-soul,  when  in  faith  it  sets  itself  to  come  to  the  rescue 
— in  church,  state,  society,  family — will  subordinate  all 
other  things  ;  and  that  the  citadel  of  the  soul  being  before 
hand  possessed  of  this  divine  passion  to  help,  all  other  and 
selfisher  passions  will  find  no  admittance. 

We  can  no  one  of  us  afford  to  count  the  story  of  Joan 
of  Arc  an  idle  tale.  Let  what  archives  will  be  opened  to 
contradict  or  alter  dates,  detail,  irrelevant  fact — the  essential 
truth  which  Joan's  life  stands  for,  the  character  which 
Joan's  career  reveals,  remain  unaltered  and  unalterable,  of 
far  greater  significance  to  us  as  spiritual  truth  than  as  the 
historical  fact.  Joan  of  Arc  saved  France  indeed,  and 
raised  the  siege  of  Orleans  ;  but  this  is  not  all  her  immor 
tality.  She  has  entered  as  a  spiritual  force  into  inheritance 
of  the  ages,  and  become  a  practical  influence  in  human 
lives.  If  you  and  I  are  not  actually  helped  by  this  in 
fluence,  it  is  our  fault,  not  hers. 

For  each  of  us  there  waits  an  Orleans.  Some  time  that 
crisis-battle  must  be  fought  which  gives  us  final  victory  or 
ultimate  defeat.  In.  that  ]ong  siege  which  precedes  that 


JOAN   OF   ARC.  195 

crisis-battle,  we  need  the  faith  of  Joan,  that  faith  which 
ranges  the  soul  on  the  side  of  the  conquering  powers,  and 
enlists  it  in  a  service  which  is  sure  to  win.  And  we  need 
to  see  our  visions,  to  hear  our  voices,  as  did  Joan  hers  ; 
those  visions  which  open  to  us  from  the  summits  of  our 
holiest  resolve,  our  highest  endeavor,  our  most  painful 
abnegation  ;  those  voices  which  lay  on  us  most  strenuous 
commands  and  whisper  to  us,  in  secret  chambers  of  our 
beleaguered  souls,  words  of  conviction,  of  courage,  and  of 
cheer.  God  grant  that  we  be  not  unresponsive  to  that 
angel  voice,  that  we  be  not  disobedient  \mto  the  heavenly 
vision  ! 


MOTHERS      OF     GREAT     MEN      AND 
WOMEN. 

AND  THE  WIVES  OF  SOME  GREAT  MEN. 

These  Pen  Portraits  inc'ude:  The  Mothers  of.  The  Gracchi,  Wesley, 
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